After the Bombs
by three-golden-mockingjays
Summary: Multiple chapter, World War II AU. Gale and Madge wage a war of their own through gifts of charity. Cato finds himself sent worlds away. Katniss learns to bake. Johanna moves in with Annie Odair. Prim does what she can as the bombs rain down. The frontlines demand more men, and more nurses. Focuses on multiple characters and ships. T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hey guys. I haven't published anything on this site for God knows how long, but I've continued writing this story and now it's finally finished. Unfortunately, my other stories on this site that are incomplete will remain that way - I don't have time for much writing these days, and I'm mainly writing fiction now anyway. This story was a special case for me; it's the longest piece I've ever written, I've done a scary amount of research, and I think I've taken this beyond what it began as almost two years ago.**

 **If you don't have patience for long stories, I'm afraid this isn't for you. I'm going from July 1940 to May 1943 (although I do a fair bit of skipping during 1941 and 1942, it must be said.) Same goes for stories that focus on a bunch of different characters - there will be times when we're leaping from Africa to Britain to Australia. That said, this is a story that I've put a lot of work into, and I'd encourage you to give it a go. I incorporate pretty much all named characters from the trilogy in one way or another. You'll have to suspend disbelief on character names - I don't imagine there were many Katnisses in 1940s England - and surnames where I've used the surname of the actor because it's not in the book.**

 **Because it's totally finished, updates on this one should be fairly regular. I'm thinking maybe twice a week, but let me know what pace you like it at - I can certainly adjust.**

 **Give it a go and leave a review. Although it's finished, I'm open-minded to editing or even adding something in that you want to see.**

 **xx - L.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

 _Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change._

\- Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein_

* * *

6th of July, 1940

These days, the newspapers were nothing if not miserable. Nevertheless, Clove steadied herself, positioning her elbows on the table (not lady-like, but practical,) and began to read. Sometimes it took a long time to find a story she was interested in, one she hadn't heard already – for instance, it was no surprise to her that France was still a miserable hell-hole occupied by the Germans - but this time, something to shock her was right there on the front page. Her dark eyes skipped over the black and white photograph of their eccentric new Prime Minister and went straight to the bold text, which declared:

 **German and Italian Internees To Be Deported**

Clove Fuhrman took a deep breath. The bookshelf behind her was more than half filled by books written in German. Upstairs, her mother was probably writing a letter in German to her sister in Munich, (of course, post wasn't getting through between the two warring countries, but Anna Fuhrman found the simple act of writing to Rosa therapeutic.) Clove's family was German, and as a result, her father, her gentle, honest father, had been interned at a camp on the Isle of Man. He was an internee. He was the subject of the article. She took another deep breath, and continued to read.

 _Winston Churchill has declared all German and Italian men interned earlier in the war effort to be a threat to the Allies, and officially, an enemy alien. This drastic move, he says, is a cautionary measure that must be taken if Britain is to avoid a possible German invasion. British allies have agreed to assist with the detainment process. Prime Minister Churchill insists that this move is vital to the war and to saving Britain._

"Excuse me? Miss?"

Clove looked up to see her near-mute cleaner twisting her hands nervously in front of her. Clove was aware of a rather intimidating scowl on her own face, but decided against a gentler expression. After all, why was she talking to her now, of all times? Could she not tell that her life was collapsing?

"Yes Katniss?" Clove did her very best to sound bored, and not to show the panic the article had instilled in her.

"I was just wondering whether you would consent to my removing your books from their shelf in your bedroom. I have to dust it, you see, but your mother said you were quite possessive of them, so I thought I'd better ask," Katniss said hurriedly as she swept her dark braid over her shoulder.

At this, Clove allowed her face to slip into something gentler. Her frustration at the dark-haired maid of sorts dissipated as an odd calm fell over her. Perhaps the regularity of this conversation helped to soothe her.

"Yes, that's fine Katniss," Clove sighed as she stood up. "Where I might find my mother?"

"Oh, she's in the study Miss." Katniss seemed a lot less anxious now, and added, "Reading, I think."

"Thank you," Clove said distractedly, looking down at the paper, where the photograph of Winston Churchill continued to stare at her. She turned it over to block the offending headline from view. "Good luck with the dusting, Katniss."

Taking the narrow stairs up to the secluded study three at a time, (despite what her mother would no doubt have to say,) she burst into the small room rather noisily.

Anna Fuhrman was short like her daughter, with round glasses and greying hair. She turned from the desk at which she was reading and gave the panting girl a small smile. " _Was ist los?_ " What's wrong?

Although Clove would usually consent to slip into German, her first language, she offered her mother no smile and spoke stiffly, "When they say German internees have to leave, does that mean Father?"

Anna sighed, "You read the article in the paper, I gather?"

Despite her few spelling problems, largely regarding the letter C, Anna, like her husband, spoke close to perfect English, with the perfect accent. She didn't sound German, despite only having moved to Britain in 1933. She was a smart woman, after all. A scholar. Almost a perfect Brit. One would have to look at the passport she carried, hear her speak her native tongue, draw conclusions from her spelling mistakes, to know she was anything but.

"The British people are very fearful right now. They have already lost Denmark, Norway and Belgium and now they've lost France. It would seem that Britain is next to go. When people are scared, they don't think things through Clove." Anna shrugged, taking her glasses off her face. "Your father will have to go."

"Go where?"

Anna smiled a little sadly as she said, "I don't think they intend to tell us."

"But we're British now!" Clove erupted. "He's British! Can't they hear our accents? Don't they know you two left because you disagreed with the Party?"

"I don't know Clove, but either way, they're not thinking about th-"

"No one had anything against us back when they were buying from our shop. Think of all the people, all the British people, who have his clocks in their houses. This is ridiculous, illogical, and downright cruel," Clove finished, chest heaving with heavy breathing.

"I think you might be right," Anna agreed, "but that does not mean there is anything we can do to prevent your father being taken away." Anna sighed, and showed Clove the piece of paper she'd been writing on. "Clove, we're short on funds. My work at the Ministry of Food isn't paying well enough for us to continue to live the life we are living now, not now that your father is going to be deported and won't be able to work at the farm next to the internment camp."

"Everything's going to change," Clove said quietly.

"Yes Clove, I'm afraid it is." Anna placed the piece of paper back on the desk. "You may need to get a job, for starters. A secretarial course is always a good idea."

Clove opened her mouth to complain that she didn't want to be a secretary, but decided, given the gravity of the situation, against it. "Alright."

She was about to go downstairs and make her and her mother a cup of tea – something a young Fuhrman woman was always encouraged to do in a crisis – when a sudden and terrible thought struck her. She gripped onto the doorframe tightly.

"Cato will go too," her voice was softer and calmer than she had expected.

"Oh, sweetheart," Anna crossed the room with silent footsteps, and placed an arm around her daughter's shoulders. "I'm so sorry."

* * *

 **Sorry about the boring chapter. We've got a bit of intro to get through :) Teaser for next chapter – Katniss makes a decision, and we go into the Mellark household!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 _No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another._

― Charles Dickens

* * *

7th of July, 1940

Katniss Everdeen did not scare easily, a quality that she prided herself on. Clove Fuhrman, for all her scowls, did not scare her. Katniss knew her anger was only surface deep; beneath, Clove did not harbour any real animosity. Anna Fuhrman was even less intimidating. Mild and studious, Katniss couldn't imagine her being anything but benign.

Despite all this, the day after chaos erupted in the Fuhrman household, Katniss was called in to see Mrs Fuhrman, and she was scared to death. She knew the news that she would receive. She knew that it might just ruin her.

"Katniss," Mrs Fuhrman greeted her softly. She looked even more worn down and mild than usual. Her generally surly daughter sat, silent, in the corner. She straightened her glasses and went on. "We have recently received news that my husband, who is currently interned, will be deported. We are unsure of where he is being sent, but we understand that it is likely he will spend months unemployed, at the very least. You have served our family very well in the past year, but I'm afraid we no longer have the income required to hire you."

In the corner, Clove let out a small groan.

Katniss was silent for a few moments before realising the family was waiting for her to speak. "I am very sorry that all of this has happened to you," she stuttered. "Thank you for being so good to me."

"If you wish to earn a few more coins, you may assist us during the next few days as we prepare to depart on the 10th. We're moving in with a cousin," Anna went on in that same, tired tone. "Regardless of your decision, Katniss, I would like to give you this as your parting payment." She smiled at her conspiratorially, as she handed her a small envelope. "It's a little bonus for being so hard-working."

Katniss took the money tentatively, her heart beating too fast. This would keep her and her sister going for a few weeks, but what after that? Despite what Gale said, the Hawthornes really were in no place to help them out financially. Gale's job on the railways did not bring in much money, Hazelle's as a washerwoman was worse. Katniss was scared. There were so many things to pay for. Prim was skinny enough as it was. It was a miracle she'd been able to convince the authorities she was capable of looking after Prim independently. She didn't want to be proved wrong.

"Thank you Mrs Fuhrman." Katniss tried to smile. "That is very generous. I'll be here tomorrow to help out in whichever ways I can."

Mrs Fuhrman sat back, looking somewhat satisfied. "Thank you Katniss."

Katniss lifted her chin, and walked out. She was scared, but she'd never show it.

* * *

Abigail Mellark liked potatoes much more than she liked bread. She couldn't remember if she'd always felt that way, or if she came to dislike bread after marrying a baker and eating nothing but. Either way, the constant smell of bread, and its prominence in their diet, was just another reason Abigail Mellark was unhappy.

"Leek and potato soup!"

An exclamation of delight escaped her husband's lips. Alexander, in stark contrast to his wife, was impressed by most things in life. This included Abigail's rather unimpressive leek and potato soup, which was tonight coupled with stale sourdough bread.

"Peeta, it's dinner time! Come get your soup!"

Once the three of them were seated at the table, Abigail could not extinguish the vague sense that she must wait for the others to arrive. Three chairs were unoccupied, and had been for a long time. Her three eldest sons, William, Matthew and Ryan, hadn't been home in over three months. The war had drawn them away, and until it happened, Abigail hadn't realised how much she'd miss them.

"I got a letter from Ryan today," Alexander said calmly, his words causing his company to sit up straighter in their chairs. "He sounded quite relaxed. Said the Italians are a pushover, and have equipment from back in the Great War. And that his regiment have the Rolls Royce armoured cars, which he loves."

"Acting like a bloody schoolboy," mumbled Abigail, and flicked her eyes up at the expectant gazes of her husband and youngest son. "If Germany comes over to help them out, he won't be so cheerful."

Peeta's face tightened. "I hope it doesn't come to that."

His parents murmured their assents, and there was quiet.

"Well," Abigail stated, breaking the silence brashly, "I've heard a few things today. Mayor Undersee's wife apparently had something of a fit this morning." Abigail was nothing if not a gossip. "There's something not right about her. Her sister died years ago. Do you remember, Alexander?"

Alexander made a soft noise of confirmation. "Yes, years ago. I think I might have been twenty. The two sisters and some friends went out to a pub, and there was a fight. One stray punch to the head, intended for a boy mind you, and the poor thing was gone." He frowned into his dinner. "They were twins, I think. And she was engaged to be married, too."

Abigail shrugged, and went on, "Apparently her medication's hard to get these days, what with the rationing and naval blockade and all that. Oh, and I heard that Katniss Everdeen girl lost her job." She didn't notice her son's slight double-take. "I wonder what she's done? Of course, I shouldn't be surprised. She was probably stealing-"

"Abigail," Alexander interrupted his wife, "she worked for the Fuhrmans, remember? She hasn't done anything wrong. Hans is being deported."

"Oh, of course," Abigail said softly. She hadn't considered that. "I wonder if she'll go with him."

Peeta could have sworn his mother's tone was hopeful. Abigail had caught Peeta giving the starving Katniss bread years a few years ago, and had somehow managed to blame this exchange entirely on the dirt-poor girl.

"Ma, she's got a sister," Peeta pointed out. "She's not just going to leave her. Anyhow, I don't think there's going to be any voluntary immigrants on that boat, only internees."

"Oh, of course," Abigail said for the second time that night, before standing suddenly. "Well, I have a headache. I'm going to bed."

A few moments after Abigail's footsteps finally faded away, Peeta shifted in his seat to face his father directly, looking out of the window where Katniss and Prim's small house was visible. Alexander read the body language beautifully.

"Are you worried about Katniss too?" the baker asked his son, a small smile on his face.

"Yes, I am." Peeta returned the slight grin. "You as well?"

Alexander nodded, and silence fell between the two before Peeta's bottled up anxieties came bubbling up in a thoroughly agitated rant.

"There should be someone there for people like her. No mother, no father, and a twig-skinny little sister who isn't capable of helping her out financially. She left school as early as she could, even though she loved it, all because she has to work all the time. Now she's got no work, a crumbling house, and soon she won't have any food-"

"Peeta," Alexander said firmly, "I'm not going to let her or her sister starve. But I need your help. You're going to have to go talk to Gale Hawthorne for me. Oh," he added, and smiled conspiratorially at his son. "Needless to say, you mustn't tell your mother."

* * *

 **Well, things are getting a little more exciting now. Any ideas as to what Alexander's plan is? Drop me a review and let me know if there's anything you'd like to see, or any comments on how I'm going with my characterisation. It feels odd to take these characters so far out of their normal setting, and I appreciate every critique I get. Teaser for next chapter – we meet the Hawthornes, and Madge has an offer to make.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 _Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?_

― Abraham Lincoln

* * *

8th of July, 1940

"Did you know some Belgian government officials have formed an unofficial government here, in Britain? Apparently, they're worried the Belgian government based in France is going to surrender… I mean, France already has." Vick didn't look up from his scavenged newspaper as he informed his mother of more news.

"Vick," Hazelle said, as patiently as she could manage, "can we have a break from the war news please?"

Posy was crying again. She had been ever since she found out what conscription meant, and that it applied to her eldest brother. Hazelle rubbed her aching fingers against her throbbing temples before directing her attention back to the stained skirt she was supposed to be cleaning. The stain was stubborn and unfading. She simply wanted to sit down.

"Come on Poes, cheer up! I'll braid your hair for you… we can get some flowers to decorate the table? Oh, come on Posy, don't cry…" Gale was kneeling down next to his sister, trying desperately to calm her down.

"But I don't-" Posy's breath was rapid, as she managed, "want you-" more shuddering inhalations, "to go!"

"I'm not going anywhere just yet Posy," Gale told her gently. "My birthday isn't for two whole weeks, and maybe the war will be over by then. They might not need me anymore."

"But what if it isn't?" Posy asked, and Hazelle could picture her trembling chin, runny nose and swimming grey eyes without turning around to look.

"It's not even certain that they'll pick me Posy." Gale was good at this. "I'll probably just stay here until the Germans go back to their own country."

Hazelle bit the inside of her cheek as she listened to her son's lies. Britain was desperate. Of course, they'd want Gale to fight for them. And if Hazelle were totally honest with herself, even if Gale weren't taken through conscription, he'd probably enlist anyway. Her son, whether she liked it or not, was a born soldier.

A knock rattled the flimsy front door, and Vick jumped out of his dimly lit corner to answer it. This was not a rare occurrence. Vick was Hazelle's only son that was any good at listening. However, the sight that greeted them was beyond a rare occurrence; it was unheard of. All flowing blonde hair and bright white shirt, Madge Undersee stuck out obviously in the dirty Hawthorne home.

"Madge?" Vick asked in disbelief, "Uh, Miss Undersee?"

"Madge is fine."

Hazelle decided this rarity merited her turning away from the washing. With a raised brow, she surveyed the scene before her. On the floor, Posy had stopped crying out of sheer surprise, but her nose was still red and dripping. Gale, originally kneeling next to his sister, had jumped to his feet and taken on a strong stance complete with a frightening glare. At the mention of this rarely heard name, Rory had come in from the small laneway that served as their backyard, splintering cricket bat in hand.

"Hello everyone," Madge said timidly, looking around the small, dark room. "I was just wondering whether-" She stopped, and shook her head. "Sorry, I'll start again. See, my father purchased all these new blankets, you see, for no discernible reason whatsoever. I mean, the old ones are perfectly fine," she said, and opened her bag to reveal them, "if you would like to have them."

There was silence in the usually noisy house. Hazelle had only just managed to realise that yes, she would like those blankets, when her children spoke up.

"I like your hair," Posy contributed, and Madge smiled weakly. The moment was broken when Gale shushed his sister and rounded on the petite woman. He towered over her, but the blonde stood her ground.

"I don't know what you've done to get your conscience so dirty, but don't use us to make yourself feel a saint, Undersee," he growled. "We don't want your charity."

"I'd best get back to the hospital, then." Madge demonstrated good common sense by realising that now was not a time to stand her ground. She closed the door and walked away before the murderous looking Gale could slam it on her. Silence fell once more.

"You know Gale," Rory said, a broad grin on his face, "you should have let her in. She's much better looking than Ka-"

"Get out Rory!" Gale and Hazelle roared in alarming unison. Bowing his head, Rory complied. He knew better than to mess with the two most powerful and significantly worst tempered people in the family. Soon the house was quiet again, save Gale's heavy breathing and the sound of Rory hitting stones with his cricket bat.

"You should be kinder to her Gale," Hazelle admonished her son quietly, turning back to the stained skirt. "She does a lot of good by employing me, even though she has no need to. And needless to say, we certainly could have used those blankets."

Gale said nothing. He was too busy answering the door.

"I swear Mad-" Gale stopped his threat midway when he realised it was not Madge who stood on his doorstep. In fact, Hazelle decided, it must've been the last person her son expected to see. "Peeta Mellark?"

"Hello Gale."

Peeta looked anxious. Perhaps he'd spoken to Madge on the way, Hazelle reasoned. Or it could simply be her son's intimidating physical appearance, and known temper.

"Hello Mrs Hawthorne," Peeta spoke up again. Hazelle nodded in his direction, and he continued, "Uh, Gale, I need you to help me out."

Hazelle was not surprised when Gale growled through gritted teeth, "You want _me_ to help _you_?"

Apparently Peeta wasn't surprised either, because he went on smoothly, "Well, I need you to help me help someone else." When Gale continued to look uncompliant, Peeta burst out, "It's Katniss Everdeen, okay?"

Gale paused, before saying roughly, "Katniss doesn't need your help."

Due to Peeta looking as though he felt a strong desire to flee, Hazelle intervened. "Hear him out Gale," she said warningly, and silently thanked God her son still listened to her. Gale would be a dangerous force, unchecked, with that temper and build.

"You're her best friend," Peeta pleaded. "She'll listen to you."

The pause seemed to last an age.

"Bloody well right she is." Gale's voice was still intimidating, but he seemed slightly mollified. "You'd better come in."

* * *

 **It's getting exciting now... teaser for next chapter – Gale and Peeta's plan is put into action. Reviews make me smile like a lunatic, so I'd certainly appreciate some, particularly if you can give me some feedback on my characterisation of our newly introduced characters. Happy New Year!**

 **xx - L.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 _The chief beauty about time_

 _is that you cannot waste it in advance._

 _The next year, the next day, the next hour are lying ready for you,_

 _as perfect, as unspoiled,_

 _as if you had never wasted or misapplied_

 _a single moment in all your life._

 _You can turn over a new leaf every hour_

 _if you choose."_

― Arnold Bennett

* * *

9th of July, 1940

Primrose Everdeen didn't like being alone, so always tried to keep herself busy when Katniss was at work at the Fuhrman's. Sometimes she would tend to the garden or patch up curtains or try to cook something with the limited ingredients she had. Today, however, she was feeling uninventive, and was therefore sweeping. She allowed the repetitive work to numb her mind; sometimes, it was easier not to think, especially these days. She was almost done when she heard the knock at the door.

"Katniss isn't home yet," she said with a smile when she saw the tall form of Gale in the doorway, "but you're welcome to wait inside. Today's her last day, and she said she'd be home around now."

"Actually Prim," Gale said mildly as he stepped over the threshold, bowing his head, "I need to speak to you."

"Me?" Prim asked, surprised. She had always gotten along with Gale, but they'd never had the connection that he and Katniss so clearly had.

"Yes you." Gale smiled as he pulled up a chair for himself. Prim followed suit, and listened as Gale continued, "The Mellarks really want to help you and Katniss out now that Katniss has lost her job. Mr Mellark told Peeta who told me that he's got three free beds and a whole bunch of jobs to do around the bakery. His eldest three sons are all in the armed forces, so I guess they're missing the help and the company. The problem is-"

"That Katniss is too proud to go," Prim finished, looking up at Gale. "That would be perfect, wouldn't it? We'd have food and work and we'd be warm. If we sold this place, we might save some money away for when we grew up." She bit her lip. "Gale, we have to convince her."

"Exactly." Gale seemed appreciative that Prim had grasped the concept so quickly, but unsurprised. The two rarely disagreed. "Peeta Mellark spoke to me. He reckons that we have the best chance of convincing her. He knows that if he approached her, she'd just turn him down."

"Turn down who?" Katniss Everdeen stepped over the threshold, blowing stray hairs out of her face. She looked tired and flustered, and her skirt was covered in dust. "Come on! What did I miss?"

"Well," Prim began slowly. Gale had obviously come over to formulate a plan of attack, (of sorts,) and they'd now missed their chance. It was clear to Prim that she had to make it up as she went along. "You and I have both been offered work. Isn't that fortunate?" she asked brightly.

Katniss wasn't fooled. "Is that right Prim?" She raised a dark brow delicately. "The same job?"

Under the careful gaze of her obviously suspicious sister, Prim drew herself up to her full height, as meagre as it was. "Yes Katniss, the same job. But there's this sort of catch, you see-"

"Of course there's a catch," Katniss grumbled, and it struck Prim exactly how like Gale her sister was.

"See Katniss, we don't get paid in the regular way," Prim managed to get out in halting tones. "Instead of money, we get a home, and food as well. They - our employers, that is - will take us in, we'll sleep in their spare beds and never have to pay for a meal, provided that we do the work they ask of us."

Prim shared a glance with Gale, and was happy to see that he looked considerably impressed by her hurried improvisation. The two pairs of eyes next flitted onto Katniss, their gazes expectant.

"Personally, it sounds a bit like indentured servitude-" Katniss paused, then sighed heavily with realisation, wiping a dusty hand against her dustier face. "It's them, isn't it?"

She jerked her head towards the grimy window, through which the Mellark bakery was visible. Prim nodded slowly, and Katniss' grey eyes seemed to dull a little.

"Then we're not going." Her tone was heavy and almost regretful, but overwhelmingly a tone of finality. "I'm not sure if you've realised this Prim, but Mrs Mellark thinks I'm the scum of the earth. Her husband might feel bad for us, but it won't last."

"But Katniss-" Prim began desperately.

"We're not going where we're not wanted, Prim," Katniss said shortly, folding her arms. When Katniss folded her arms, it always signalled the end of the conversation. Prim sunk back into her rickety chair, which wobbled tantalisingly. She steadied herself with her feet and buried her face in her hands, defeated. When she eventually did dare to look up, however, a new hope rose within her. She'd never seen Gale look so mad.

"Katniss," he said sternly, towering over both of the girls, "I am your best friend and Abigail Mellark is one of my least favourite people in Britain. Her youngest son follows not long after. But, despite all of this, you really do need their help if-"

"I'll find another job!" Katniss erupted.

"No, you won't, because everyone thinks you've been Nazi brainwashed by Hans Fuhrman," Gale pointed out, folding his arms to mirror her body language.

"The Fuhrmans are not Nazis!" Katniss hissed, her tone bordering on hysterical.

"I never said these people were reasonable, Katniss." Gale rolled his eyes. "If they were, the Hans Fuhrman wouldn't be preparing for deportation right now. My point is, you need help, and even though I initially liked the idea about as much as you-"

"So you thought it was the worst idea anyone has ever had?" Katniss cut in.

"Katniss, we're in the middle of a war that stretches from the Britain to Japan to bloody Australia, don't be ridiculous," Gale said dismissively, and Katniss looked very much humbled at that. "This plan, while not the world's best, has benefits that far outweigh the obvious problem of that god-awful Abigail Mellark. You are going to shelve your pride and march yourself right up to that bakery tomorrow morning," he paused, grinning slightly, "unless you would like me to drag you."

"Peeta and Mr Mellark really are lovely Katniss," Prim added. "They wouldn't offer if they didn't want us."

"But…" Katniss was running out of points.

"If you take up their offer," Gale said in absolute sincerity, "I will take Madge Undersee's charity."

Katniss sighed, but Prim smiled. She knew her sister had finally given in.

"Alright then Gale. You've got yourself a deal."

* * *

 **So, Katniss and Prim are moving in with the Mellark. Anyone see that coming? Teaser for next chapter – we go to Peeta's work, where we meet Marvel. Meanwhile, the Fuhrman and Ludwig families prepare for the deportation of their loved ones. (Basically: Clato. WHOO!)**

 **Also, it's recently occurred to me that I am an Australian living in 2016, writing about young men and women living in the 1940s. If anyone has any slang I could use, or general feedback on my dialogue, that would be super helpful. Drop me a review and help me out?**

 **xx - L.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 _Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting._

― J.M. Barrie, _Peter Pan_

* * *

10th of July, 1940

Clove ducked out of the way instinctively as Cato's fourteen-year-old brothers barrelled down the hallway. This happened a lot in the Ludwig household, and Clove, who spent a lot of time there, was used to dodging them. Simon's nose was bleeding, and Max held a wooden spoon in his hand. Again, not surprising. All Ludwig boys liked a physical fight, but none as much as the twins. Cato's mother, looking exhausted and holding a small bag, trailed despondently after them.

"Are you ready to go down to the docks Clove?" she asked wearily. Julia Ludwig spoke with a typical British accent her husband still hadn't picked up.

"Yes Mrs Ludwig." Clove's voice was flat.

"Well, that makes half of us then," she said, and sighed heavily. "They'd better hurry up, or the ship will leave and we'll miss it. Those two are absolutely impossible." She paused, and a slapping sound followed by a cry of pain echoed from the kitchen. "Unbelievable, isn't it? Their father and two eldest brothers are being deported but I don't think they even care… That said, they're probably ready. Just help me find some coats for them before we leave."

Clove groaned, but didn't have the heart to turn down Julia Ludwig, who Clove knew almost as intimately as her own mother. Together, they rifled through the boys' drawers and cupboards. It was difficult to track down the coats, as the twins were not particularly fond of any of their material possessions, and as a result, didn't bother taking care of them. As Julia liked to say, the only things those two needed were each other, some kitchen implements, and a ridiculous excuse for a fight. Just as the two small bags were packed, one of the twins let loose a string of profanity. Despite spending as much time under this roof as her own, Clove still could not tell whether it was Simon or Max in pain.

"Alright, we've still got a little time," Julia murmured as she checked her watch. "Now, I don't know if we'll actually be able to get to your father, or any of my boys. Apparently, they're separating them into sections depending on how dangerous they think they are, and Nicholas will certainly be under the most security. I'm not sure about Thomas or Cato, but they do look intimidating. Your father, of course darling, won't be, so perhaps you'll be able to see him."

Clove nodded. Cato's father had fought for Germany in the Great War, and was known to have been quite the soldier. Clove, who spent a lot of her time wandering the city with Cato, had become used to people crossing the road so as to avoid them. Cato always claimed responsibility for this, as it was his father who he was the likeness of, and his father who'd killed so many Brits. It was no surprise to the Ludwig family that their three eldest members were being deported.

"Actually, I'm going to meet you at the docks," Clove decided hurriedly. "Could you tell my mother, please? There's someone I have to speak to."

"Alright," Mrs Ludwig said, with only a slight frown of suspicion. Clove was known for being a bit of a whirlwind, and this sudden change of emotions was not out of the ordinary. "Don't you be late!"

"Of course not, Mrs Ludwig." She sprang up, and began to jog out the front door. "Thank you!" she called back as she made his way down the drive. Looking back at her best friend's towering house, she saw Simon brandishing a rolling pin through the window, and Max running. With a slight grin, Clove turned and kept jogging.

* * *

Peeta liked his job at the Rambin's. He wasn't much good at bread - the bakery had always been William's to inherit, and he probably would have died of boredom if he'd become a clerk like Matthew, but looking after Mr Rambin's horses suited him just fine, even if he wasn't allowed to ride them. Another positive was that Marvel, a boy who worked alongside him, made for amusing company. His badly hidden affections for Glimmer, the boss' snobby but admittedly beautiful daughter, kept Peeta entertained as he cleaned stalls.

"Morning." Marvel seemed significantly less cheerful than usual. "The chestnut mare's lame in her left rear leg and in a right mood, by the way. Doesn't want me anywhere near her. She tolerate you better, her stall needs cleaning out."

"Alright," Peeta said with a sigh. "Should I start on the stalls, or the tack?"

"Stalls please," Marvel said instantly. "I might need to, uh, step out for a while, so I'll need you here with that nightmare," he said as he gestured towards the chestnut.

"Step out?" Peeta raised his eyebrows. "What are you doing? Meeting someone?" He grinned suggestively. "Glimmer, perhaps?"

"No," Marvel said decisively, staring resolutely at the ground. "I'm not sure whether you've yet noticed, Peeta, but I don't think Glimmer cares for me at all. Whenever she comes over, she talks to you."

"She does talk to you, sometimes," Peeta said fairly.

"Yeah, when she's got something to whinge about," grumbled the tall boy without any real malice. "Apparently I'm a really fantastic _listener._ I'm particularly good at listening to her talk about other boys. You included, I might add. She keeps telling me she wishes you were older. _"_

"Maybe patience will pay off." The corners of Peeta's mouth twitched into a smile as he let himself into the stall of the apparently moody mare.

"I bloody well doubt it," Marvel said emphatically, and spoke no more.

As it turned out, Marvel didn't end up stepping out. A short, dark-haired girl let herself into the stables, panting, and made straight for him.

"We've got to go really soon Marvel," the girl said in a rush. "They're departing within the hour. Do you want to come? I'm not sure if we'll be able to see them… it depends on whether they're in the high security sections. Would they put Cato there?"

Instead of speaking, Marvel hugged the girl, who was clearly a close friend, tightly in those long arms of his, before letting go. Peeta knew it was rude, but he couldn't stop staring. He could count the times he'd seen Marvel Quaid speechless on one hand.

"I don't know. I don't know. I can't believe they're sending them away." Marvel's voice was raw as he asked, "They're really going to round them up and make them go?" The girl nodded, and Marvel groaned. "A ship was sunk by the Germans just off Britain only a week ago! And didn't you hear? The Germans have started bombing convoys _today._ They can't do this." He tugged at his thick hair in apparent distress. "I'd help you and your family out except I'll be off being a bloody soldier… oh God, Clove, this really is a disaster, all of it."

"Marvel." The girl, Clove, seemed to be trying to cheer Marvel up, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You'll be a great soldier. You will do your duty, and you will come home safely."

"Clove." Marvel shrugged off the girl's hand. "I'm not worried about me," he protested, leaning on his shovel, "I'm worried about Cato, and I'm worried about you."

"I'll be fine, you idiot," Clove admonished him, though the tension was read easily off her face. "We survived while they were in the interment camp, and we'll survive now. Moving houses is definitely not the end of the world. As for Cato… well, he's tough, isn't he?" Clove buried her face briefly in her hands, then composed herself and looked straight at Marvel again. "Cato, my father, even Thomas and Mr Ludwig… I'll miss them, of course. But the war can't last forever, right? We'll all be back here at the same time. Exchange war stories."

Marvel nodded, but didn't say anything for a few moments. When he spoke eventually, his voice was despondent. "I can't go with you. I'm sorry. I'd love to say goodbye just as much as you, but Mr Rambin would probably fire me and we need the money. You'd better go. You don't want to miss them."

"You're right." Clove nodded slowly, giving Marvel one final hug. "I guess I will see you at the end of it all. Good luck with uh… what's her name?"

"No one. No need. For the luck. Uh, no," Marvel stuttered.

"Glimmer," Peeta said promptly.

Clove seemed to notice Peeta for the first time, and gave him a fleeting grin. "Good luck with Glimmer, Marvel. If it fails, I'll find you a girl wherever the new house is. Put in a good word for you."

"Bye," Marvel said quietly, then raised his voice as he added, "and I don't need a girlfriend!"

"Yes, you do." Clove smiled, and began to run.

As Clove, who Peeta had gathered to be German, ran off, Peeta looked curiously at Marvel, who glared defiantly back.

"If you think that she's some sort of Nazi, that _I'm_ some sort of Nazi-" he began.

"I know you're not," Peeta assured him, taking a step back and accidentally colliding with the mare, which attempted to take a bite out of his shoulder.

Marvel observed this with an uncannily blank face, before he blinked and was somehow in an instant back to his usual self. "Can't say I didn't warn you," he said, then shrugged, and turned back to his work.

* * *

 **Sorry for the slight delay on the update guys, my aunty has been pretty sick, so everyone in my family's a bit distracted right now, me included. Fortunately, I really enjoyed revisiting this chapter. Simon and Max are based almost directly off my own brothers (who are fighting over the remote as I type) and Marvel is possibly my favourite character I've written in this story. Teaser for next chapter – the Dunera, and its load of German passengers, departs Britain. Gale and Madge attempt to make peace. Reviews, as always, are appreciated (and I'm still waiting for some tips on that slang!)**

 **xx - L.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

 _…_ _Australia has a much murkier, much more complex view of its history. It's just full of all these open wounds we don't really know what to do with._

\- Nick Cave

* * *

11th of July, 1940

Clove buried her face in her hands, and tried to pretend that the world was not real.

She hadn't just seen a German man have his possessions stolen by a leering British soldier. She didn't have a bruise blossoming on her arm from the rough touch of men fighting through a crowd. Her father wasn't the butt of racist jokes. Her mother wasn't crying.

Lies, lies, lies.

At the moment, Clove preferred the lies. The dock was the second worst place Clove could imagine being right now, with the worst being the ship itself. Lies might be the only thing, Clove decided, to make this bearable. Therefore, she kept telling them to herself.

The boat wasn't clearly overcrowded. There weren't children crying. She wasn't close to crying herself.

A shove from a careless sailor sent her sprawling, snapped once more from her reverie. She and her mother had successfully found Clove's father, standing on the edge of a crowd of men designated to the low threat detainees. Clove was yet to understand why the British government would confess them to being low threat, and still feel the need to deport them. Presently, she was keeping her distance, telling herself this was because she wanted her mother and father to have some time together – albeit in a crowd of thousands – without her company. In truth, Clove knew she feared saying her goodbyes to her father purely due to the fear of not knowing what to say, the fear of falling apart. Clove preferred to keep a stone façade, and she had always feared the day it would slip.

"Clove!"

Her father was beckoning her now, and Clove knew the time had come to face up to her fears. If the façade slipped, so be it. There was plenty of time to establish another. She picked her way through the crowd, and came to a stop beside him. Her mother was crying. Clove wished she could turn away.

"Clove, I need you to promise me something." Hans Fuhrman gripped his daughter's hand in both of his own. "I need you to look after your mother, and I need you to look after yourself. When I come home, and I assure you, I will, I want to see both of you happy and well."

It felt as though something was stuck in Clove's throat. "I'll try-"

"No." Hans was urgent with a sincerity she didn't often see in him. "No, I don't need you to try, I need you to do it. You and your mother are my world, Clove. Promise me. Please."

"I'll stay safe." Her voice was barely a whisper. "And I'll keep her safe too."

"That's the spirit." Hans smiled at her, and hugged his daughter tight. "You are so strong, my daughter. I remember when you were an infant… I knew you were strong, even then. That was twenty years ago, Clove. You have grown so much since then. Well," he paused, chuckled, "in everything except for height, perhaps. I'll happily accept the blame for that gene – I'm sorry darling."

Clove felt herself laugh, but it made tears prick at her eyes.

"What I'm saying Clove, is that every single day of your life, you have become stronger. And every single day of your life, you have become more like the person that will do something great one day. Don't let missing me get in your way."

In a fit of fondness, Clove wrapped her father in her embrace, and allowed herself to shed a few tears into his shoulder. "I promise."

"If I have the means, I assure you that I'll write almost continually."

"And I will write back." Clove blinked rapidly as she said this. A British soldier with yellowing teeth was pushing people onto the ship now, and the crowd Hans was standing in was beginning to shift. "Goodbye!" she called desperately, as he began to walk away.

She held her mother's hand tightly as they began to make their way off the docks. That was when Clove stopped in her tracks.

"Clove!" a young man with blonde hair, standing in the high security crowd, was bellowing at her. "Clove!"

"Oh my God…" Clove murmured, and soon she was running in a thoroughly unladylike fashion. "I thought I'd missed you," was all she could think to say when she finally reached Cato.

"Well, you're about to." He jerked his head towards an officer barking orders. "That's why I had to call you over. Sorry about that."

"It's okay." She had to look to the ground for a moment, before meeting his rather intense gaze once more. She hadn't expected to be able to talk to Cato, hadn't dared to hope. Now she had been given a fleeting opportunity, and she wasn't sure how to take it. "Wherever you're going, please don't die."

"I'm not going to die." Cato laughed at this. "Look at me!" He waved his long arms, and nearly knocked someone in the head. "Sorry about that," he muttered to the disgruntled man. Clove laughed, releasing further tears that stung her face. "Look, I will be absolutely fine," he told her, and frowned. "You'll miss me."

Cato, like Clove, did not like to admit to weakness. Cato did, however, like attributing weakness to Clove, which she enjoyed doing in return.

"You'll miss me," she countered instinctively.

That was when he grabbed her wrist and kissed her. It tasted of the salt of the air and of desperation, and it knocked her breath from her. She had known Cato forever, and she had always toyed with the idea of loving him. This was not their first kiss, (their had been several experimental explorations, a teenage bet, and a few moments of frustration) but it was their first kiss that felt real.

"Goodbye Cato."

"Goodbye Clove."

They stood straight, looking the other clear in the eye, trying to express something that their ineloquent tongues could not quite fit around. Clove wondered, briefly, whether perhaps this moment would last an eternity. Eventually, however, the babble of distressed conversation reached its tedious high, and drowned out the moment.

* * *

"What do you mean we're taking them in?"

Madge's house shared a wall with the bakery next door, and it was fairly thin. Back when she lived at home, Madge was constantly subject to hearing the Mellarks' day to day chatter, so when Mrs Mellark was having one of her rages, Madge didn't miss a word.

"Well just tell them you've changed your mind!" Abigail sounded far angrier than Madge had ever heard her.

"I'm not going to! I am going to take them in regardless, Abigail. You should know that I wouldn't toy with a child like that. When I said I would have them, I meant it." It was a much rarer occurrence for Mr Mellark's voice to permeate Madge's walls.

"You're insane!"

"And you're bitter!"

Madge shrugged and went back to her piano. As she reasoned, it really wasn't her business. If Peeta came to talk to her, then perhaps she'd talk about it, but as of now, piano was more important. In the past few weeks living at the hospital, Madge had missed it dearly. Training as a nurse was what she wanted – she wanted to be useful and she wanted to help others – but the matrons weren't particularly keen on any sort of recreation. Madge used to spend her afternoons off in the city, but she was tiring of that now, and her parents - well, her father, really - had been begging for a visit.

"Madge!" Her father's voice echoed through the house, and she stopped playing mid-scale. "There's someone at the door that wants to speak to you!"

As the mayor and his daughter passed in the hallway, going to and from the front door respectively, the mayor grinned and gave his daughter a wink. "It's a young man! And he's very handsome."

Madge smiled wryly and rolled her eyes, but quickened her pace. She knew Delly, her best friend, was working today, and so she'd been expecting Katniss, or her mother's nurse. Certainly not a young man…

"Gale?" This was the last person Madge had expected to see standing stooped in her doorway. A visit from Peeta would have been plausible, what with his parents fighting and all, but Gale Hawthorne?

"Hello Madge." Gale's grey eyes avoided Madge's incredulous gaze. "I have come to say sorry for yelling at you when you tried to help me and my family out." His voice was flat and devoid of much emotion. "And I thought you might enjoy these." He held out a paper bag, which Madge opened. Inside, it was filled with strawberries. "I found them this morning, so they're fresh."

"If I take these strawberries," Madge said slowly, "can I give you the blankets in return?"

Gale paused, and then relented, "I suppose my mother would have a fit, otherwise."

Madge smiled. "Wonderful."

Running upstairs to grab the blankets and some old clothes Posy might fit into, Madge looked outside her bedroom window. Gale was visible below her, waving at someone Madge couldn't see. Craning her neck, she saw Katniss Everdeen standing at the doorstep of the bakery, dressed her very best. She gave Gale a nervous smile, which Gale answered with a thumbs up. Curious, Madge hurried downstairs.

"You've given me a dress," was the first thing Gale said upon receiving the bundle of cloth.

"Not for you," Madge told him, smiling at the idea of it. "I thought Posy might like it. Could be a little big, but I'm not sure."

"Why?" Gale looked earnestly confused.

Madge shrugged. "I've got no use for it. Posy looked sad, too."

Gale nodded heavily. "She's upset because I'm turning twenty in the next few days. With conscription going at the moment, chances are I'll be gone soon."

Madge paused. What did you say to something like that?

"If you're family's struggling while you're gone, I'd be happy to help them. Probably best to talk to my father though – things are very busy at the hospital."

Gale looked at Madge intently, as though he were sizing her up. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he said delicately.

"Uh yes, let's hope." Madge smiled tightly. It felt so fake. Gale glanced in Katniss' direction, unsure of what to do with himself. "What's Katniss doing at the Mellark's?"

"Uh..." Gale scratched his neck awkwardly, and managed, "I think she's taking up an offer."

"An offer?"

"Of work," Gale said shortly. "I'm going to go now," he said slowly, gesturing in the direction of his house.

Madge wished their interactions weren't so awkward, but it really could have gone a lot worse. "Alright Gale. Uh, happy birthday."

Gale took a step away from her, arms filled with blankets and clothes. All of a sudden, he stopped being awkward and turned into the surly boy she knew best, grumbling, "I wish."

Slightly bemused, Madge closed the door and walked slowly back into the house.

"Am I buying a white dress for you darling?" her father asked as she entered the kitchen where he was looking for lunch. "Have you chosen a church yet? Shall I buy a nice lamb for a roast?"

"I don't know about that," Madge said, and rolled her eyes. "Maybe not just yet."

* * *

 **Wow. Long chapter. Hope you made it through alright. On that note, do you guys have a preferred length for chapters? If they're getting too long, I can start breaking them up so there's only one 'scene' per chapter. Teaser for next chapter – Katniss and Prim move into their new home.**

 **xx - L.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 _I Years had been from Home_

 _And now before the Door_

 _I dared not enter, lest a Face_

 _I never saw before_

 _Stare solid into mine_

 _And ask my Business there—_

 _"My Business but a Life I left_

 _Was such remaining there?"_

\- 'I Years Had Been From Home,' Emily Dickinson

* * *

12th of July, 1940

"As the person who liked the idea the most, I'd expected you to be a little quicker about moving," Katniss pointed out as Prim fussed over their few belongings, trying to decide what to discard and what to bring with them in their new life. "My Lord Prim, you don't need to worry about sweeping now!" she exclaimed as Prim picked up the broom thoughtfully, gazing at the admittedly dusty floor. "We're leasing it for a pittance, it doesn't matter what condition the floors are in. That said, in the middle of all this chaos, it likely won't lease at all. It really doesn't matter, Prim."

"I don't want to throw those things out Katniss," Prim said miserably, gesturing to Katniss' pile of discarded items. "This photo of you is absolutely lovely-"

"And faded," Katniss contributed, "and unnecessary."

"And the plates-"

"Are discoloured, mismatched and chipped," Katniss pointed out. "I know Mrs Mellark already has fairly low standards of us, but I'd rather be seen bringing in nothing than those old things. Now come on. They're not going anywhere."

"Oh, I suppose you're right," Prim gave in. "It's just… I'm nervous."

Katniss smiled gently, and opened her arms. Prim accepted the hug as Katniss took a deep breath. "I'm nervous too. But we can't back out now, can we?"

"No," Prim mumbled into Katniss' chest, then looked up. "I do want to go. I just, well, Mrs Mellark scares me a tiny bit."

"Well she shouldn't," Katniss said encouragingly as she took her sister's hand and lead her out the door, "because it's me she can't stand. No one could hate you, after all. You're too sweet."

"Well, I endeavour to stay that way." Prim picked up the small bag she'd packed. "The last thing I need is to make an enemy of Abigail Mellark. I did see her hit Peeta once, and it looked like it must have hurt. I wouldn't like that to happen to me, that's for sure."

Katniss frowned. "Why would she hit Peeta?"

Prim shrugged, and tried to reassure her sister. "I'm sure it was just a one-off thing. I suppose lots of parents do it anyhow. She wouldn't slap us."

"Let's hope not," Katniss mumbled, before clearing her throat at looking around her meagre house for the last time. This house had stopped being a home years ago; the transition occurred somewhere between her father's death on the railways and her mother's lapse into depression. "Oh, well, I believe that the time has come." Katniss closed the front door with some sort of finality. "To the Mellarks?"

"To the Mellarks."

* * *

"Suitcases upstairs." Abigail's harsh voice carried through the house. "Upstairs is for living, and downstairs is for work. You two get the room on the right. Peeta will show you the way."

Peeta tried not to wince at his mother's harsh and intimidating words. He could feel the two girls behind him shrinking away, see their eyes on the door. Peeta set his jaw. He would not let his mother force the Everdeens back into their impoverished state. He and his father had been watching them struggle for too long. Then, of course, what Peeta mentally called, 'the Katniss factor' was also to be considered: in other words, the slight factor of him being utterly in love with Katniss Everdeen.

Katniss Everdeen, who he still remembered meeting for the first time. Katniss Everdeen, with the grey eyes, the beautiful voice, and the tragic past. A father dead in a railway accident, a mother dead from pneumonia, a life shattered within a year. Katniss Everdeen, moving into his house. Katniss Everdeen, scared to death of his mother.

Well, that was one thing they had in common.

"Come on Katniss, Prim," Peeta said as cheerfully as he could manage, breaking the silence. "We'll put your bags away and you can have some time to yourselves, then I suppose I'll be teaching you the jobs around the bakery that need doing." As they reached the staircase, Peeta halted. "Alright. Let me take those." Prim happily relinquished her bag, which was far too heavy for her skinny frame, but Katniss glared at Peeta.

"I'm perfectly capable of carrying my bag, thank you," she said calmly.

Peeta froze. This wasn't quite how he had envisioned his first conversation with Katniss Everdeen. Lost in thought for a few moments, neither Peeta nor Prim took a step. Katniss however, had no such hesitation, brushing roughly past Peeta with her bag held in front of her chest. It swung back and forth, occasionally hitting the wall or stair rail.

Peeta blinked twice, then led Prim up the stairs and into the small bedroom.

"Oh, this is a nice room." Prim was the first to speak upon entering the bedroom. "I like this room."

Peeta's eyes flicked towards Katniss, who looked calmly nonchalant. He looked away quickly. "Well, I'm glad you like it Prim. When I was little, I always wanted to have this room. It belonged to William and Matthew, my two eldest brothers. The other room belongs to Ryan and I, except Ryan's serving overseas now, just like Matthew and Billy."

"I've heard," Katniss spoke for the second time, almost causing Peeta to jump in surprise. She faltered, "About your brothers, I mean. It must be awful. Having three brothers fighting."

Katniss seemed even more startled than Peeta by her own input, Prim halfway between amusement and distress.

"There are a lot of awful happenings these days," Peeta said quietly.

An awkward silence fell over the empty room. In the technical sense, it had never been empty. Furniture and books had stoically remained as the war rendered the world foreign to him, but Peeta always thought of this room as empty, because what good were the beds without his brothers to sleep in them? Peeta's brothers, being brothers, fought regularly, that much was true, but it didn't mean that Peeta didn't miss them like he'd never missed anything before. Perhaps their previous noisiness made the house seem even quieter.

Peeta watched through his keen blue eyes as Katniss and Prim relaxed, putting down their bags and testing out the beds, the cupboards, the mirror; looking, in Katniss' case, as though it were all some great hoax. Finally deciding that it was not, the beautiful brunette sat down on Billy's old bed, tracing the linen absent-mindedly with her long fingers. Peeta wished to reach out and touch her, but knew that at least as this point, he could not. And so, he smiled only a little sadly and watched the girls, deciding that perhaps they were the ones who would finally make the bakery feel a little less empty.

* * *

 **So Prim and Katniss are officially members of the Mellark household - things get fun from here! Cheers for the tips about tagging characters each chapter. I am officially onto it. Teaser for next chapter – Marvel, who is off to army training, says his formal goodbyes to his boss, and some accidental and stammered goodbyes to his boss' daughter.**

 **xx - L.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

 _"_ _This is a long goodbye, yet not time enough. I have no aptitude for this. I cannot learn this. I would hold on, and hold on, until my hands clutch at emptiness."_

 _―_ Juliet Marillier, Son of the Shadows

* * *

13th of July, 1940

"You're the ninth worker I've lost to conscription now." Mr Rambin shuffled through the papers on his mahogany desk. "The ninth!" he repeated in exasperated tones. "It's absolutely ridiculous. Everyone of good quality's being snatched up. I have to hire underage workers! I suppose that Peeta Mellark's alright, but some of them… I mean, have you encountered Castor and Pollux? They're well-meaning, I suppose, but dangerously simple in the minds. Mind you, they're not as bad as that Lavinia girl. My wife is quite certain she's stealing from us." Mr Rambin's several chins became less apparent as the bulky man turned his head towards the sky, exclaiming dramatically, "What has the world come to?"

Marvel fought the urge to practice some war skills on the man sitting in front of him at the desk, and resisted the temptation to point out that he himself was an underage worker for the majority of his career, that Lavinia was paid a pittance and had six siblings to support, and that there was far too much suffering in the world for this man to have any grounds on which to complain - he sat in his house, with his beautiful wife and beautiful daughter and beautiful horses, and pockets full of money. Judging by his rolls of fat, Mr Rambin's consumption of food was enough to sustain a small family. Still, he had the audacity to complain. He wasn't about to go and fight. He didn't even have any sons going off to fight. Marvel was torn between anger and astonishment at Mr Rambin's ability to unfailingly find something wrong with his life.

"To top it all off," Mr Rambin carried on serenely, seemingly unaware of Marvel's simmering rage, "the armed forces are talking about taking my horses," he cleared his throat and repeated himself in louder and more definite tones, " _my_ horses, and using them for military purposes! Apparently, they want to give them to some troops from _Australia_ , no less. I'm telling you, I'm not having any convicts laying hands on my horses. I have worked hard for those horses. I have made the money, and they have not! If they want horses, they should grow some brains and do what I did…"

Marvel was fairly confident that Mr Rambin had inherited nearly all his money and never worked for anything in his life, but again, kept his mouth shut asides from uttering the words, "Mr Rambin, sir, may I please have my papers and my pay now? There are some things of mine I've got to grab from the stables, then I really should be getting home… prepare to leave for training in Tidworth, you know, sir."

"Oh, of course you can!" All of a sudden, Mr Rambin was suddenly jovial once more, handing Marvel the papers that formally terminated his employment and his final envelope of money, with the careless words, "Where are you off to after your training, anyhow?"

"North Africa, sir," Marvel said, still scarcely believing the words he uttered, the words that had come to him in the post the previous night. "We're going to fight the Italians. We think they're going to attempt to capture Egypt."

"Ah, good, good." Mr Rambin didn't seem to care about the possibility of Marvel's demise. "You'll send those fascists packing, won't you Quaid?"

"I'll try, sir." Marvel gave a curt nod, and exited the room as fast as possible. Running his free hand through his curly hair as he jogged down the stairs, Marvel muttered curses under his breath, "Stupid old git, sitting here complaining like a…"

"Watch it!" A voice snapped Marvel back to his senses, and he looked up to see-

"Glimmer." Marvel's tone was one of utter shock. "Oh, I'm so sorry Miss Rambin, I didn't mean to crash into you! I was just- well you see… I mean, I was-"

"It's quite alright." Glimmer smiled at Marvel, picking up the packages she'd dropped. "I never watch where I'm going. Probably my fault as much as yours, Marvel. How've you been, anyway? We haven't spoken properly in a while."

Marvel shrugged. He was always a bit like this with Glimmer. He'd loved her for as long as he could remember, and he'd listened to her tell him stories of the other boys she was pining after for just as long. He couldn't resent her for her obliviousness - he was the gutless one, not daring to tell her how he felt.

"I'm not going to be working here anymore," he told her flatly.

Glimmer's eyebrows shot up, and then a look of realisation dawned on her pretty face, followed by a look of sadness. "Oh Marvel, you're not going away to serve? But you're only-"

"Twenty one, actually." Marvel nodded sombrely, indicating at the papers in his hand.

Glimmer gave a melodramatic cry, dropped her packages once more, then flung her arms around him. "Marvel! Who am I supposed to talk to while you're gone? Who'll help me out?" She pouted. "I'll miss you Marvel."

"And I you, Glimmer." Marvel's mouth was dry, but he was also slightly angry with the girl who stood before him. Of course, her primary concerns were how his absence would affect her. "I'm sure you can talk to Peeta!" he suggested brightly, planting an insincere smile onto his face.

"Maybe," Glimmer sulked, "but I'd sooner talk to you. You're better at understanding problems."

Marvel felt his words stick in his throat, and decided to change the topic. "What's in the packages?" He asked, and pointed to the floor.

"Oh, stockings, shoes… that one's a parasol." She frowned at the bags as she fought to remember. "It's my nursing uniform, and it's quite ugly. I don't think I'll be boosting the soldiers' morale in that." She kicked a bag with contempt.

"I'm sure you will." Marvel rolled his eyes in disbelief, but if Glimmer picked up on the hint, she showed no signs of it.

"Well, I suppose my job will be to heal, not to be glamorous… anyhow, enough about me. Please don't die, will you?"

"I'll do my best Glimmer." Marvel took a step back. Glimmer was beautiful. Glimmer was unattainable. Glimmer was selfish, sheltered and spoiled, but she was still beautiful. "Anyhow, I'm only going off for training now. Tidworth, eight weeks, learning up for an anti-tank regiment. I won't be deployed until I actually know how to handle a gun."

"I can't imagine you with a gun." Glimmer's voice was soft.

"I can't imagine you nursing somewhere as dirty as the frontlines," Marvel countered.

"Don't be rude," she retaliated, voice light-hearted once more, "I don't have anything against a bit of mud." She paused, her face becoming more serious. "I don't know about all the injured soldiers though. That'll break my heart."

He couldn't be near her for much longer without breaking down, he was sure of it. The last thing he needed to do was impulsively confess love to a girl who thought only of herself.

"Goodbye Glimmer." Marvel's heart was heavy, his voice resigned.

"Goodbye Marvel."

* * *

 **Aren't they frustrating? Lucky they'll be meeting again... (wow, go me, spoiling my own story.) To my Aussie fans - I have to say, one of my great joys in this fic is dropping in Aussie mentions where there shouldn't be, especially if its old British people referring to us as convicts. I'm pleased to announce the kind-of-subtle Aussie shoutouts will keep coming.**

 **I'm going away tomorrow for a couple of days (because my school's idea of a leadership camp is dumping us all in the bush together) but I'll have the next chapter up either on the 26th or 27th. Drop me a review to come back to - I'll need all the consolation I can get! Teaser for next chapter – the Hawthorne family, along with the Everdeens, Thom, and his partner Lillian, celebrate Gale's twentieth birthday.**

 **xx - L.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9  
**

 _The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him._

― G.K. Chesterton

* * *

14th of July, 1940

"And we're really supposed to celebrate my birthday with this here?" Gale gestured to the government letter sitting on the kitchen table.

"Well, clearly not young man, but I don't see you moving it!" Hazelle snapped, brandishing a tea towel threateningly. "I can't do everything, you know."

"I'll move it," Gale grumbled, "but it doesn't mean that we can just ignore what it says. Ma, how are we supposed to celebrate with-"

"Keep talking, Gale, and I'll hit you over the head with a saucepan so you forget all about it," Hazelle said calmly, turning back to the dishes. Posy looked up at her mother, but didn't giggle inanely as she would have once. "Call your brothers in, Gale."

With a sigh of resignation, Gale opened the back door and ducked under it. Not having a back yard, the Hawthorne boys played primarily in the laneway behind their house. In the far end of the narrow and rickety lane, Rory held his old and cracked cricket bat, tapping it against the damp ground.

"Come on Vick!" he called tauntingly. An empty crate served as wickets behind him.

Gale watched as his youngest brother sighed. Vick didn't have the passion for sport that Rory did, and maintained that cricket was only good for making you cold or bored, or both. However, he adjusted his grip on Rory's beloved and tarnished cricket ball, and bowled it towards him at a decent pace with even a little inswing. Rory blocked the ball, which rolled despondently until it hit the back wall of their house.

"Rory! Vick!" Gale called sharply. "Ma wants you two inside."

"One more over?" Rory asked hopefully, leaning on the bat.

"Nice try." Gale's face was devoid of a smile. "The guests will be here soon. Drop the bat, and come inside."

Rory scowled. "Whose bloody idea was this? It'll just be miserable, Gale. I'd sooner play cricket."

"I couldn't agree with you more," Gale said with a tight smile, "but Ma wants the party, so there shall be a party. Even if there is absolutely nothing to celebrate."

"I'm done with this bloody war," Rory said darkly, kicking at stones. "I hate the Germans and I hate the Italians. I wish I could go fight them too."

"Don't," Gale said decisively. "It's bad enough that I'm going."

"Do you think they'd let me in?" Rory asked. "Do I look eighteen?"

"Eighteen won't get you deployed overseas," Vick reminded him.

Rory did not seem too put off by this. "Do I look twenty?" he asked pertly, drawing himself up to his full height - he was admittedly almost as tall as Gale now - and puffing out his chest.

Gale ignored him.

"Who's coming?" Vick asked as he stepped through the door.

"Katniss, Prim and Thom - he'll be bringing Lillian of course." Gale shrugged as he stepped into the kitchen. "Not many people."

"But I don't like Lillian," Rory pointed out, pouting and generally refusing to act his age.

"Why not?" Gale asked absently as he began chopping celery at his mother's silent instruction.

While Rory prattled on about how Lillian tried too hard to engage him in conversation, Gale focused on not cutting his fingers off. He didn't want to go fight in North Africa, but he didn't want to stay. He couldn't stand to feel useless while all his friends went off to war, and, as Rory had pointed out on many occasions, he really did hate the Germans and Italians.

"Hello!" Lillian was the first to walk through the door, all dark hair and curves and rosy cheeks. A broad smile was plastered onto her face, as per usual. Thom followed her, so stark in contrast with his dark eyes and angular cheekbones.

"Gale, happy birthday!" Thom took the knife from Gale's hand and placed in on the bench so that he could clasp Gale's hand briefly and tightly in his own. "How's everyone doing?" he asked in an undertone, jerking his head towards the assembled Hawthorne family.

Gale shrugged. "Posy's sulking, Vick's alright and Rory wants to join the war effort." He placed both hands on the bench behind him and leaned back on his heels. "Ma's just determined to carry on, like always."

"She's tough, your mother," Thom conceded with an incline of his head. "Mine's been sobbing. Saying she wishes we lived in Switzerland or something." Thom shrugged. "Mind you, she's a whole lot older than yours, so maybe she's just losing it."

"Your mother isn't losing it," Gale said quietly, out of necessity more than anything.

"Well, let's hope not." Thom managed to pull a grin back onto his face, turning to the room at large. "Rory, how's the cricket going?"

Rory looked relieved to have an excuse to turn away from Lillian, whose face lapsed into a tired sort of sadness as Rory turned. Gale walked over to her, a frown of concern on his face. Despite Rory's feelings towards her, Gale had never had anything against Lillian.

"You alright Lill?" he asked quietly, leaning against the wall beside her.

The smile was back on her face the moment she registered his presence. Gale wondered if it hurt her cheeks.

"Oh, I'm fine, Gale" she answered airily. "Everything's as good as it can be for me right now. I mean, you can't expect life to be perfect during the war and everything but…" she trailed off, gazing at the floor, but when she looked up the smile was back, "I shouldn't worry. I don't think they make them tougher than you and Thom."

Gale shrugged. "It's natural to worry. But we should be fine."

"I suppose it's not as exciting to be turning twenty because of all this, right?" she asked, and he could hear the thinness of the humour in her voice. It seemed to scrape on something.

"It puts a bit of a damper on it." Gale tried his best to grin, but he wasn't as good of an actor as Lillian. "We thought I wouldn't be called upon, working on the railways being a reserved occupation and all. But because I'm still in the process of training… off I go."

Ignoring his pitiful attempt at putting on a cheerful front, Lillian's eyes darted to the windows. "I just saw Katniss coming up the lane. She'll be here in a minute."

Gale nodded.

"Are you going to tell her how you feel?" Lillian asked mildly.

Gale was stunned. "I-"

"Do what you want, by all means Gale, but don't feel obliged to tell her anything just because you're about to leave," Lillian advised him, her tone uncharacteristically grave. "It's hard to love someone who's going to North Africa."

"Nothing's going to happen between Katniss and me." Gale felt as though a heavy weight had settled at the pit of his stomach. "As for Thom... I'm sorry Lill, I really am. I'll look after him for you."

"Thank you." Despite her smile, Lillian's eyes showed no sign of cheerfulness. "Thom says we'll get married if he does…" she paused, taking a deep breath, "come home. Once I'm a bit older, I suppose. That…" she shrugged, "that would be good."

"He'll come home." Gale didn't know what else to say. "Also, how did you know about..."

"Thom's an awful gossip." Lillian flashed him one last smile, and turned away from him, walking towards Primrose Everdeen with open arms and another smile tacked to her face. "Prim! How's your new life suiting you?"

Gale's eyes took in Katniss as she stood frozen in his doorway. Despite him resenting the Mellarks for being wealthy enough to help the Everdeens when he, her best friend, couldn't, he was happy to see that she'd gained weight and looked healthier. Happier, maybe not, but it was a start.

Until Lillian had voiced them, Gale had largely ignored his feelings for Katniss Everdeen, shoving them to the back of his mind. He'd always harboured a faint promise to himself that he'd marry her, but only once he had enough for the two of them. He wouldn't condemn her to a life of poverty, to his mother's life. He didn't want to see those lines beside her eyes. If he didn't have enough reason already, the war was his final incentive to keep his mouth shut about it all. He'd be much happier to head off to Africa without additional thoughts of Katniss paining him. He'd miss home enough as it was. He supposed the silence made it easier for her, too. He looked into the grey eyes that looked so much like his own, and walked slowly towards her.

After a few moments, she smiled at him, and Gale felt muscles in his face relax, muscles that had been holding tension without him even realising. He wrapped his arms around Katniss, and she melted into him in a way that she'd often refused to.

"How's the bakery?" he asked her, straightening up.

"Alright," she said with a shrug. "Food's good, but I like here better. How are you?"

"Preparing to go to war."

"You'd better come back," Katniss told him with a steely glare. She was being entirely earnest.

"I will," he told her, and their eyes met for a few moments, steel on steel and a thousand words they couldn't say. Then, Katniss turned to Lillian, and the moment made suddenly insignificant. "I haven't seen you in weeks!"

Gale didn't look to join another conversation, simply watching the people filling the small room. Thom, his friend of so many years, who could very well be a friend who he'd watch die. Who'd watch him die. Lillian, who took it upon herself to make the Hawthorne house a happier place, even if it hurt her to smile. Rory, talking to Prim and putting on a display of confidence, making himself as tall as possible. Vick, talking to Posy quietly. Light was in both of their eyes, and Gale thought of the stories Vick told that made Posy smile in that way. He wondered if anyone had a smile as nice as Posy's. Then there was Katniss. Lillian was right. He did love her, but he'd have to let her go. Maybe, if he did come back, he could have her then, provided the baker's son didn't beat him to it.

Hazelle walked silently to stand next to her eldest son, and shared his smile as they looked at the people who loved Gale more than anyone else.

"We really love you Gale," she told him quietly.

Gale nodded. He knew. That was why he had to go.

* * *

 **Well that's all reasonably tragic. Sorry that not much happened here, but I felt it kind of needed to be explored (plus, I've neglected Gale terribly so far this story.) Did I capture the Katniss-Gale romance vibe at all? I have to say, I really don't ship them, so I struggled a little.**

 **To all my Aussie readers, I hope you enjoyed the Australia Day celebrations yesterday, and kept in mind that the 26th of January is also a day of mourning for the original inhabitants of this land, who continue to suffer from colonialism today.**

 **Teaser for next chapter – Glimmer and Marvel attempt a better goodbye, and Prim settles into life in the bakery.**

 **xx - L.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

 _Goodness is about character - integrity, honesty, kindness, generosity, moral courage, and the like. More than anything else, it is about how we treat other people._

\- Dennis Prager

* * *

15th of July, 1940

Glimmer had embarked on this personal mission to say goodbye on a whim; she'd woken that morning and been startled to find that her first thought was of a stable boy off to Tidworth. Over breakfast, she'd been quieter than usual, as she furiously and internally rationalised the thoughts that flew at her. Marvel was her friend, she'd decided eventually, as simple as that. In a life where her father's ambition was to have her successfully married off, she supposed it was a relief to have Marvel, someone to thoroughly inconsiderable she could allow herself not to worry what her hair looked like during their exchanges. And so, she found herself running in a thoroughly unladylike fashion to say goodbye to the only male friend she'd ever had.

"Marvel!" Glimmer's hair streamed behind her as she barrelled down the path. Marvel had clearly already said goodbye to his family, and was beginning his walk to the station. "I heard that you were leaving for your training today and I came as fast as I could-" She bent over, trying to catch her breath. Eventually, she straightened up, and looked the young man in front of her in the eyes. "I didn't think our last goodbye was particularly good."

"Glimmer." There was a flicker of pain in Marvel's face that Glimmer could not comprehend. "I'm just going to Tidworth. Eight weeks of training."

"Yes," Glimmer said breathlessly, and reached out to grasp his hands, "but after," she swallowed with difficulty, "after that you'll be going away."

"I thought women were quite enamoured with the whole soldier business," Marvel commented, swinging his bag onto his shoulder and beginning to walk down the path. Glimmer followed, frowning, as he went on, "I thought you'd think it was all very exciting and noble and such."

"Well, I do think it's noble," Glimmer clarified, "although it's not as though you really had much choice. Anyhow, I don't see what's so exciting about it all if it means I don't get to talk to you for months on end. Also," she cut Marvel off as he opened his mouth, "which women do you know who are suddenly enamoured with you?"

Marvel rolled his eyes. "I didn't say they were enamoured with me, specifically. If you're really keen for an example, your little sister was draped over Billy Feldman the other day, carrying on about how gorgeous he'll be in his navy uniform."

"She has no taste," Glimmer said dismissively, groaning at the thought of her sister with such a boy. Rambin girls were supposed to have standards well above Billy Feldman. She'd be having a chat with Amelia soon. "Where did you see this?"

"The stables give you a delightful view of the grounds on the eastern side of the house," Marvel said with the slightest shadow of a smirk. He made a face as he considered his own words, and countered, "Well, it's less delightful when I see Amelia kissing some cad under the oak trees."

Glimmer almost choked. If Marvel could see Amelia… "You watch the oak trees… but that's… that's…"

"Where you go to with Alastair when you don't want your father to see you?" Marvel finished smugly. "I know. Unfortunately, I've had to see some of that as well."

Glimmer stammered, "I didn't think, I didn't, didn't know-"

"Glimmer," Marvel said loftily, "I wasn't exactly surprised. Don't you remember? You were discussing this with me for weeks. _'Jonathon's father is friends with mine, and he is rather sweet, so it would make sense; but Alastair,_ _well, father wouldn't like him because he's thoroughly atheist, but he's a magnificent sportsman and so handsome and-'"_

"Oh shut up," Glimmer groaned, covering her face in embarrassment. "Please tell me I don't sound like that."

"Oh, you definitely sound like that," Marvel assured her, "but no matter. I'm a good listener, remember?"

"Yes, you are." Glimmer patted Marvel's hand distractedly as they walked onwards, and failed to stifle a yawn. "Sorry, I'm exhausted. Almost all of our staff have left to join the war effort, and yesterday – which was my day off from hospital, I might add - I had to help Beckett put black curtain on all the windows. Do you know how many windows we have in our house, plus the stables and all that? Over a hundred, Marvel. And of course, they're all different sizes and we had to cut the cloth perfectly for each, because apparently with the blackout even one little sliver of light means we're all going to be ashes come morning. It took hours upon h-"

They had arrived at the train station, and Glimmer felt the breath temporarily knocked out of her as she looked at the mass of young men waiting for the train to take them to learn to fight. Some looked strong, but many looked as though they'd be knocked over in minutes. Glimmer immediately admonished herself for such a thought. The British generals were clever, they'd take good care of their boys…

"Glimmer." Marvel's voice was heavy. "I'm going to have to go now." His voice softened and so did his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled down at her. "Thank you for coming with me."

"But Marvel…" Glimmer paused, then threw her arms around Marvel's neck on an impulse. Marvel felt solid and strong and so alive. She let go, and looked up at him. Glimmer had never noticed he was so tall. "I'll miss you. I hope you enjoy this training. And also," she paused, and Marvel waited for her to speak, patient as always, "don't you dare go away after the eight weeks without seeing me first."

"Thank you Glimmer." Marvel's tone was weighted with something that might have been regret, and it made Glimmer's stomach twist. She'd known it was a foolish idea. She'd known, somewhere, that they'd never have a normal friendship. Something, class perhaps, or words unsaid, built up a wall between them. It was then that he turned to walk away, and Glimmer felt her heart clench as she watched him go. She turned too, slowly weaving her way through the crowd of men.

"Oh, and Glimmer!"

Glimmer whirled around and saw Marvel towering over the crowd, an earnest smile on his face.

"You can do better than Alastair."

* * *

Waking up at dawn was more difficult than Prim had originally given it credit for. After so much suffering, she thought to herself, surely this couldn't be too bad. But still, sleep tugged at her as she extricated herself from the warmth of the bed, moved only by Abigail Mellark's presence in the doorway of her room. Katniss was already beginning to dress, and Abigail was, as usual, short on patience.

"Girls, please, if we want to sell any bread whatsoever today, you're going to have to do bit better than this," she snapped, one hand on her hip. "I hope you haven't forgotten that you're here on the condition you earn your keep."

"Yes Mrs Mellark," Prim mumbled wearily, pushing blonde strands of hair from her face. "It'll take me a scarce two minutes to get dressed. I promise." She made so as to give the older woman a smile, and then thought the better of it. Maybe it was a little early for smiling.

"Alright," Abigail grumbled. "Katniss! You're ready. Come with me."

Katniss shared a look of exasperation with her younger sister, and trailed despondently after the blonde woman. Prim felt her hair with her hands, and decided that her two plaits felt appropriately intact. As she pulled on her boots, Prim reflected briefly on the life she now led. It was far from ideal, but then again, who had it easy these days?

"'Morning, Prim!" Peeta was absurdly cheerful, apron already on and grin lighting his face. "You're with me this morning. We're in charge of the ovens. It's an easy job, just make sure you've got your wits about you, because burns from those aren't a whole lot of fun."

"I can imagine." Prim took the apron from Peeta's hand, and noted a shiny scar on his right arm. That must have been one of the burns they were talking about. "So, are we loading in and out?"

"Yes we are." Peeta was fiddling with the settings on the huge ovens. "I was thinking you could be my little runner. You go and get the trays, bring them to me, I'll load them in. I'll take out a tray, you run them back. That sort of thing. My father and Katniss are kneading in the other room, and my mother's preparing the food for selling, I believe. So you'll be taking from dad and giving to ma."

Prim nodded. "I can do that. Oven mitts?"

Peeta shook his head. "Not yet, but after the first load's done, then yes." He glanced down at his watch. "We've still got some time. Let's give the ovens a clean."

He threw her a rag, which she caught, and together they wiped any grime or ash from the ovens. Initially, they were quiet, concentrating on their work, but eventually Peeta broke the silence.

"Is Katniss happy here?" he asked, screwing up his face as he scrubbed extra hard at a particularly stubborn blemish.

"Uh," Prim faltered, knocking her head on the top of the oven she was wiping down. "Well, she's not _particularly_ happy at the moment, not with Gale going away soon, but I think she's happy to be here. It's a huge weight off her shoulders, not having to put food on the table and all that. I mean, I could help her by growing the garden and mending clothes and that sort of thing, but she had to work, and she had to go to the market and barter for goods." Prim extricated herself from the oven. "There was an awful lot for her to do. I think she's happy here, less worried."

"That's good," Peeta said mildly, before sighing heavily. "When we offered, my father and I just wanted to help you two, but she just seems so sad sometimes," his voice trailed off in a way that made Prim's heart ache. "Is there anything we can do?"

Prim shook her head. "I don't think so. The things that are upsetting her are outside of here. She's worried about the war and Gale and the rest of the Hawthornes, and she wants to do something but she doesn't know what…" Prim shrugged. "If you can find her something to do that made her feel more productive, she might be happier."

Prim watched Peeta closely as he thought about this, blue eyes seemingly far away as he mulled over Prim's words. She watched him rotate the cloth slowly and unconsciously in his hands, and she reflected. She knew this boy had an immense kindness in his heart, but no one was this kind, this concerned, for no reason. It was that morning, as she loaded bread in and out of the ovens, that Prim came to the conclusion that Peeta Mellark was in love with her older sister.

* * *

 **So, in a story where Katniss, Glimmer and Marvel are all painfully oblivious, at least Prim's observant. How'd we like this one? All the reviews are really making me love publishing this, so if you keep them coming, I'll certainly keep these regular updates happening. Commiserations to any of my fellow Aussies going back to school this week (I don't know about you, but I'm currently in a state of violent denial.) Teaser for next chapter – the Dunera proves to be hell for Cato, and it doesn't look like he's getting off any time soon. Finnick writes to his wife, and Annie struggles with the pain of not knowing.**

 **xx - L.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

 _Our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows, but only empties today of its strengths._

― Charles H. Spurgeon

* * *

23rd of July, 1940

"Do you know how many days we've been on this ship?" Cato asked his older brother.

He had lost track; all those horrific hours blurred into one other. It was late at night, but neither Cato nor Thomas were asleep, partially due to the uncomfortable sleeping conditions and partially due to the fear of the unknown that constantly tore at them - despite the whispers that they were off to Australia, there was still no confirmation from the stubbornly cruel soldiers watching over them.

Over the past few days, Cato had been vomited on by someone lucky enough to sleep in a hammock, while he slept on the floor. He had watched a Nazi beat up a thin Jewish man while the soldiers looked on, (it seemed the British had managed to deport _some_ of the right people, but more of the wrong ones.) He'd seen a British soldier purposefully step on the face of a man sleeping on the floor and witnessed a different soldier throw several suitcases, including Thomas', overboard. As his father had said, it really did seem as though they'd been given the lowest of the low in the British army.

"Two weeks tomorrow, I think." Thomas' voice was soft. "Although I can't be sure."

"Do you think we are going to Australia?" Cato asked, his voice also hushed. The last thing he wanted was to attract the attention of one of the guards. "I've heard it's awful there. And so far away, too."

"I think it's very likely, although part of me wants to believe that the British wouldn't send us so far away," Thomas murmured, resignation heavy on his breath. "From what I can tell we're travelling south, but I suppose we could stop in Singapore. As for Australia being awful, I don't think it is. Although you're right about it being far away. If we are indeed going to Australia, it will mean many, many more weeks on this ship."

Cato groaned. Aboard the _Dunera_ , several weeks would be nothing short of torturous. The deportees faced daily horrors, while a stronger force gripped them and distressed them even in their sleep. There was every chance they would be sunk. There was every chance they would not make it to their murky destination. The fear of death constricted Cato, and made the world heavy. Just a few days ago, the ship had been hit by a torpedo, which fortunately and rather miraculously, had not detonated. Word had it that a second torpedo had also been fired, but as the ship had bobbed with a wave the torpedo had passed underneath the hull. Cato shuddered, imagining German U-boats and a fatal torpedo just missing the ship. Cato could not swim.

"I'm going to the bathroom," Cato murmured as he stood up and began to pick his way through the sleeping bodies covering the floor. He felt his boot come down on someone's hand, and winced, ready for retribution, but the slumbering man did not wake up.

As Cato made his way to one of the bathrooms, he prepared herself for a long wait. There were probably over two thousand people on board, and as far as any of the passengers knew, there were only ten toilets. This shortage of toilets meant that there were guards referred to as 'toilet police' controlling who went, and who tried, (but not terribly hard,) to prevent people resorting to violence in order to get further up the line, (it sounded stupid, but happened frighteningly often.) Still, Cato figured, there could hardly be too many people looking to go to the toilet at this time of night.

"What are you doing?" a soldier snarled at him, taking a step from the wall he'd been leaning against and standing straight.

Cato froze in his tracks. He folded his arms slowly, and glared at the man in front of him.

"I said, what are you doing?" His voice echoed through the hallway; it was sharp, but oddly empty.

"I'm just going to the bathroom, for God's sakes," Cato said dismissively.

The guard was not impressed.

"I think you're up to something," his snarl was wolf-like in the moonlight. "What's in your pockets, you filthy German?"

"Would you like to check me?" Cato's voice was cold.

"As a matter of fact…" the man stepped towards him, "I would."

The soldier was shorter than Cato, and his eyes were a watery blue that made Cato feel vaguely seasick. For such an unimpressive physical specimen, he was inanely confident, and swaggered towards him, reached into Cato's pockets, and pulled out a wad of letters.

A muscle jumped in Cato's jaw as the short man unfolded them.

"Letters to Clove Fuhrman." He shrugged appreciatively as he read them. "Cute. Your tone's fairly blunt… are these supposed to be romantic? I'm not really seeing any fondness here." He chewed the inside of his cheek pensively. "God, these really are terrible. Do yourself a favour and don't send them once you get off the ship. She'll leave you quicker than-"

Cato clenched his teeth, and punched the man square in the jaw.

* * *

 _15_ _th_ _of June, 1940_

 _Dearest Annie,_

 _I am absolutely ecstatic at your news! Of course, it is a shame to learn of one's wife's pregnancy through a letter, but I suppose such is the nature of wartime. I am overjoyed to know that within a year we shall have a beautiful baby to call ours. Indeed, I have been so happy that I've been crowing about it to anyone who will listen, which probably accounts for why everyone is so fed up with me. They're all miserable, Annie, but I am happy and it is all because of you._

 _You shouldn't worry about me, and look after yourself as much as you can. Even if I am still serving when the baby is born, I will always have him or her in my thoughts, and I hope to have the healthiest and happiest wife and child to return to in the world. You will be a brilliant mother, even if I'm not home to help you, and if you ever need anything, you shouldn't hesitate to visit old Mrs Mason. I know Johanna is serving with the ATS, but she'll still welcome you with open arms._

 _Obviously, because someone will be checking this, I can't say all too much about our current situation. Then again, you're used to that, aren't you? Still, I hope the censoring doesn't make this too hard to read. I'll try to keep it appropriate. Here is the general war update from where I am:_

 _We have crossed the border from -, and we have had a great victory against the Italians, (don't suppose I can tell you where.) We are now aiming to defend our newly taken land as well as we can. There are also predictions of the -, but nothing of that nature has happened yet. Of course, by the time you get this letter, chances are the situation shall be entirely different. Hopefully the mail system does something about this long and unpredictable wait time with our correspondence – I am quite certain more letters would be in the best interests of the war, because they certainly boost morale._

 _It's obviously sweltering here in Libya, and quite a few men are suffering with it. Luckily for us, we'll be getting some more boys in within the next two months, who'll be my section - as a lance corporal, I'll be in charge of around four privates, which isn't a lot of responsibility, but it will be fun. I'll have someone new to tell our news to! They're straight from conscription, and have been training for a little while in England prior to coming here. Still, I imagine I'll have a lot to teach them. It will be nice, having some new faces around here, and I'll have succeeded if we -, and return all of them home. It's not the most achievable of plans, but I have a feeling this campaign could be a good one._

 _Unfortunately, it is time for dinner now, and I must finish my letter here. I hope the hospital does not work you too hard, and that you'll get some time off soon. Stay strong, my love. Hopefully, I shall be home sooner than you can imagine._

 _Yours,_

 _Finnick._

Annie folded the letter with shaking hands, pressing it onto the table and wishing she could unread the words that her husband had sent her. She wasn't quite sure what she hated more, not having the information and imagining the worst, and having the information and picking it to death until she flew into another panic. She had to do something about it, she knew. But what was there to do? Annie was anxious, and as a result, there was absolutely nothing she detested more than a day off.

She wasn't sure for how long exactly she sat there for, staring at the wall as tasks to do and fears for Finnick chased each other around her head, but at some point, the doorbell rang and Annie started. She walked down the stairs, hand gripping the bannister tightly, and opened the door.

"Donate some pots?" a young blonde asked cheerfully, already weighed down by several large pots and pans.

"Uh…" Annie blinked. "I'm sorry. I'm not familiar with the cause."

The girl looked surprised, but didn't seem to be too put out by this, as she'd hitched the smile back onto her face and was now explaining, "We can melt them down and use them to make planes for our boys in the air force. They're doing awfully important work defending London from German air invasion."

Annie nodded slowly. "I think… I think I have a pot to donate. Wait a moment."

She returned to the door a few minutes later, large pot held against her hip, where the smiling girl waited patiently. She handed the pot over clumsily.

"Do I know you from the hospital?" the girl asked, frowning slightly. "Fulham Hospital?" she clarified. "My name's Madge, by the way… Sister Undersee," she amended herself hurriedly.

"Yes, yes." Annie nodded distractedly. Finicky continued to occupy her mind. "Annie Odair. I'm a senior sister."

"I thought so." Madge gave her a tentative smile. "Anyhow, I'd best be off. I have to get back into the hospital by five, would you believe it." She rolled her eyes. "Thank you for your generosity!"

The door closed, and Annie remained standing behind it. Walking down her street was a nurse who spent her afternoon off collecting pots for the air force. She could imagine her now, navy skirt swishing, and reassuring smile on her face. Annie thought of her words; of boys in the sky and bombs raining down. She took a deep breath, and reassured herself. In the morning, she would go to work.

* * *

 **ODAIR BABY! I thought that almost made up for the fact that Annie's got terrible anxiety and Cato is currently trapped in such horrific conditions. For the interested, the _HMT Dunera_ really did carry a whole bunch of deportees, and the incidents that I've described have been reported by survivors today. My great grandfather happens to be one of them, and I will confess to having modelled Cato's story slightly after his. There's a bit of fun author trivia for you ahaha. **

**Teaser for next chapter – Thom struggles through training, and Madge makes a big decision about her future. Review, you make me smile!**

 **xx - L.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

 _All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us._

 _―_ _J.R.R. Tolkien_

* * *

1st of August, 1940

In a thoroughly dispiriting fashion, it was raining in Tidworth. The sky was a hopeless sort of grey, blanketing the sun, and the rain dripped down in generous drops. Thom rolled his eyes at the thought that this was supposed to be summer. He supposed that it wouldn't really be a British summer without rain, and stubbornly refused to lament it. This terrible weather did not mean there was any respite for the training soldiers, as their more malicious officer let them know.

"Let's go men, ten miles, just like always! I don't want to hear any complaining about the mud, you hear? You don't get to pick and choose the weather on the battlefield!"

Thom's least favourite aspect of training was the early waking hours, and the expectation that they must run ten miles through ploughed fields before breakfast. Thom was also constantly hungry, which generally made him angry. Spirits were not high in Tidworth, especially not in the face of rain and a run. As usual, it was Gale who copped his moaning.

"Would it kill them to make us run at any other time of the day?" he asked as he pulled on his boots. "What's wrong with eleven or so? Just before lunch? But no," he said, tones slightly maniacal as he shook his head in disbelief, "no breakfast until you run."

"Thom, you're the best runner here," Gale reminded him, and rolled his eyes, "although I have to say, I could definitely skip the run today. Look at that rain! I know it's summer and all, but I guarantee that mud will be cold."

"And probably be thick enough to drown in," Thom added miserably. "I think this is actually counterproductive, bashing us up like this. We'll all be too bloody tired and hungry to drive away any armies."

"Not with that attitude," a burly, older man largely referred to as 'Brute' snapped at them. He too was taking the eight-week course for anti-tank regiments, and was one of the men in their cramped dormitory, but hadn't said much to either Gale or Thom, who weren't about to initiate conversation with him. He was an intimidating figure, with the nickname to match. "No wonder France was such a disaster. Bet the trenches were filled with whingers like you."

Thom and Gale exchanged a significant glance, and Thom resolved to complain less loudly from now on. He'd survived two weeks and two days, (was it bad that he was counting down?) and as terrible as training was, there was something worse about the attitudes that everyone seemed to be building, at varying speeds - everyone except Thom himself. Brute, whose real name - according to Gale - was Brutus, was an example of one extreme. He was filled with a hatred for the Germans and Italians that Thom supposed was rational. He was eager to go out and spill blood, his nationalism spurring him on like a dog at his heels. It all made sense, Thom reasoned, as he watched it take Gale as well. These were terrible men, taking land that was not theirs, killing thousands – millions – in their path. So why did Thom not feel it too? He was vaguely aware that somewhere in his mind, the numbers did not seem real. He'd never seen a million people before. Even here in Tidworth, with the old anti-tank guns rolled out each day and the distant thunder of bombs during the night, the war did not seem worth fighting.

It was not as cold outside as Thom had feared, but as the rain gradually soaked his hair on the sleepy walk to the start of the running track, goose bumps raised on his bare arms. The idea of running was becoming more appealing by the minute. Gale was stretching out his arms, with neither apparently in the mood for talking. Thom frowned as his boot became momentarily stuck in the mud. The idea of a ten-mile run lost its appeal as quickly as it had gained favour. He might warm up, but he'd have to get out of the mud first.

"Alright men, I don't want to see any slacking today!" They had reached the unadorned starting line, and the unfortunate officer who had to supervise was taking out his irritation by having a good yell before they began. "I want you to run like you're running on the frontlines. One day," he said gravely, drawing himself up. Thom rolled his eyes, and his lips followed the officer's well-known and clichéd saying of, "Your life, and those of your countrymen, may depend on it."

Some of the men seemed genuinely inspired by this speech. Thom looked at them with vague disgust. Then the officer barked something else, and they were off.

The mud was heavy and restricting and the rain made it hard to see, but Thom's lungs enjoyed the taste of the cool air, and soon he found as close to a rhythm as was possible in this minefield of sunken soil. The rain first lost its sting, then faded away altogether as the clouds slowly drifted apart to reveal a rather weak, but valiant sunrise. Thom smiled as he looked at it. Lillian was mad for a good sunrise. He wondered if she was watching this now.

The run came to an end and so did Thom's reverie; Lillian was forced out of his mind as he returned to the main part of the training facilities, a world in itself, where there were only men and guns and a lot of anger. Lillian didn't belong in a place such as this. Someone he didn't know, a man clearly senior in ranking, clapped him on the sweaty shoulder, telling him, "You've finished first in nearly every one of those. It's very nice to see such a strong and healthy young lad. You'll have no trouble getting the job done against those bloody fascists."

Thom turned and gave him a weak smile, because he knew that he would.

* * *

It was never good to be called in to speak to Senior Sister Merret, because she very rarely had anything nice to say. Madge had seen her reduce several young nurses to tears, but through a mixture of nursing skill and good luck, (the frightening woman was taking her day off the day Madge tripped in the corridor and dropped three bedpans,) she had never been severely admonished herself. Madge couldn't think for the life of her what she'd done so terribly wrong, and checked her uniform twice before entering the staff room where she had been told to meet.

"Nurse Undersee." Senior Sister Merret's voice was clipped and harsh. "What are your aspirations for your future in nursing?"

Of all the questions that Madge had been mentally preparing for, this was not it, and Madge was caught off guard. She wondered whether Senior Sister Merret was sadistic enough to blatantly deny Madge her dreams as the result of a careless mistake. In all honesty, it wouldn't have surprised her. Madge grimaced, and told herself that it was lucky her dreams were so mundane.

"Well," shee ventured timidly, "I would like to become more adept at pre- and post-operative nursing, rather than just looking after patients with more chronic illnesses. I would like to become more independent-" she caught a flash of something in Senior Sister Merret's steely eyes, and amended herself, "not to say I would become independent of doctors or other senior staff, only that I would be able to understand more for myself and think on my feet when required…" she trailed off. "In all honesty, I haven't given the future too much thought, Senior Sister."

"Of course you haven't," Senior Sister Merret answered cuttingly, before a curious expression came over her face. It was far from apologetic, but Madge supposed it was a start. "What I mean to say, Nurse Undersee, is that I think that although you haven't been thinking of the future, I certainly have, and I think there is an avenue through which you could fulfil these aspirations of yours."

"Is there?" Madge was now even more shocked than before. A promised avenue through which to fulfil her dreams was the last thing Madge could ever imagine gleaning from any interaction with Senior Sister Merret. She wondered if the senior sister was playing out some sort of cruel joke.

"Of course, it's entirely up to you as the individual," she went on, hands were clasped together tightly, "but I was seriously considering recommending you to the Queen Alexandra's Imperial Military Nursing Service. They're in desperate need of more nurses out in North Africa, and I'm quite confident that you would have what it takes. You're young, granted, but you've got reasonable experience and I think the young girls like you will be much better at boosting the morale." She almost looked like she was about to laugh or do something else bizarrely uncharacteristic at this point, but did not. Madge decided to take the awkward twitch of her lips as a smile, which was miraculous enough.

"I think," Madge began, and faltered, "I think I should like to go. But… do you really think I'm ready, Sister?"

Senior Sister Merret pursed her lips. "I do. Anyhow, you won't be deployed for some time, so you'll have plenty of time with which to continue to learn and improve. Now, I'm not going to gush, so don't ask for any more confirmation. "

Madge almost laughed, but held it back. "Thank you. What… what will I need to do?"

"There is a shopping list, and I have some reading material that should do well to prepare you. I'll have them for you by tomorrow. Aside from that, the best thing you can do Nurse Undersee, is get back to your ward and look after your patients."

"Thank you again, Sister-" Madge began.

"No more thanks! Now off to your ward, and don't let me see you running!"

That dreary Thursday would remain the only day Madge saw Senior Sister Merret act remotely human, and was also momentous in the fact that it was the day she decided to make a journey that would change her forever. She knew it from the moment she agreed; she knew this decision would take her far away, far away from London and far away from a sheltered life with white bread and a grand piano. A day ago, she was at the crossroads, and now she was on the verge of a new chapter in her life. The path had been chosen, the task had been set; but for now, there were bandages to change, and if she remembered correctly, the man in bed 24 needed his antibiotics.

* * *

 **Sorry guys, that was a little bit of a filler chapter, but it means exciting things can happen in the future. It looks like we'll soon have quite a few characters off in North Africa... I can assure you at least that next chapter is pretty exciting, mainly because HAYMITCH! How are you liking Thom? I initially found it kind of odd to write about a character who's barely explored in the books, but if the characterisation's a bit scratchy here, I think I came around to him more as the story went on. On that topic, anyone you want to see more/less of?**

 **Teaser for next chapter – Peeta writes a letter to Ryan, and the Mellark Bakery residents find their lives in the hands of the local drunk.**

 **xx - L.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

 _May your adventures bring you closer together, even as they take you far away from home._

― Trenton Lee Stewart

* * *

9th of August, 1940

 _Dear Ryan,_

 _Everything is the same at home, and everything is different. Hysteria is rising, and the majority of our more paranoid neighbours are unable to stop themselves bursting into rants about Hitler's inevitable invasion of our soils. They have also become deeply mistrustful of nuns, because we've been warned that they, (and nurses, would you believe it,) could potentially be disguised German spies. To think, not so long ago we were calling this the Bore War. Now, everyone's on the edge, all the time, and I have to say, it's exhausting._

 _Mother's fretting like mad, and I know you're not getting any letters from her but if I were you I wouldn't take that as a sign that she isn't thinking of you – all she does is worry about you three. In fact, I think she's forgotten that she has a fourth son, (that said, I'm not complaining. Working in the bakery, for instance, is much nicer without her breathing down your neck, as you're probably well aware.)_

 _Father, on the other hand, is trying to remain as calm as possible. I'm sure you can imagine it: warm smile lazy on his face as he pretends to listen to everyone's fears, pats them on the arm, talks about our boys in the air force. I don't have a clue whether he actually believes what he's saying, but he's very convincing. It's hard to be worked up about the war with him around._

 _Thankfully, because I'm working in the bakery and the Rambin's, the authorities have decided I might as well pass for an adult and I'm not being evacuated. Children are streaming out to the country on trains, because everyone's talking about an air invasion, (if they're not talking about Hitler's U-boats emerging from the sea and taking us all by utter surprise, as though we don't have the world's best navy.) Can you imagine the humiliation of my being evacuated while you lot were off serving? Mercifully, I have just enough years on my side, and I'm fit to remain here._

 _The Everdeen girls too, are staying in London, with Primrose, (who's about fourteen – do you remember her?) absolutely refusing to budge and mother insisting that we need her at the bakery, and Katniss an official member of the workforce. That said, she can't manage to get a job outside of the bakery, what with having previously being employed by the Hans Fuhrman, who is currently on a ship to somewhere while everyone here seems to suddenly think him a Nazi. It's absolutely appalling, the way this whole 'enemy alien' ordeal has been dealt with, and it's especially out of hand if people are looking at Katniss, who was a mere maid in a German-British household, as though she were wearing a swastika on her lapel. Katniss told me that the reason the Fuhrmans were in England at all is that Hans disagreed with the Nazi Party and decided it would be safer to get out, which just proves how ridiculous this whole ordeal is. Mr Churchill is quite inspiring and all, but he's also a little crazy I think, though maybe that's who we need to get through this. Chamberlain certainly wasn't getting us anywhere._

 _I know you'll be smirking as you read this whole Everdeen section, and in response to the teasing grin of yours, I give you the Katniss update: she no longer hates me, but she still hates mother, and she doesn't like feeling useless in this war. As for me, I think it's needless to say that I still spend far too much time thinking of her, and if you were here, you'd have plenty of material to tease me over. I think she's going a little stir-crazy, poor thing – she used to be the head of her household (as meagre as it was,) and I think she misses a feeling of control. The war has her wrapped up in knots: Gale, (the dark-haired one you always tell me is much better looking than me,) is off in Tidworth, training with anti-tank artillery, and she's scared to death for Prim, who is spending a whole lot of time on the streets with the likes of Rory Hawthorne, (Gale's younger brother,) which is quite stressful with everyone so sure that the bombs will drop on us any moment. I would quite like to find a way to reduce this feeling of powerlessness in both Katniss and in me – I'm considering joining some part of the home guard, and hopefully bringing her with me._

 _Enough of me. How is everything in the desert? I don't imagine it's a lot of fun, whatever you said about the Italians being generally useless on the battlefield. I don't know how I'd deal with the heat, for starters, and add actual combat to all of that and I'd be rendered useless within an hour. It's probably lucky for Britain that I'm still underage. You haven't spoken much about any of the other soldiers in your previous letters, and I confess, I'm very curious to hear of the men you are with. I imagine there's more than a few interesting characters in the Desert Rats. Of course, feel the need to write only what you have time for. Blast, you probably barely have time to read this letter. I suppose I'd best wind it up then._

 _Come home safely, we'll go mad without you._

 _Love your brother,_

 _Peeta._

* * *

When Katniss walked to the top of the stairs that connected the bakery to the Mellark household in the late hours of the afternoon, Haymitch Abernathy was the last person she expected to see. She quickly allowed her face to slip into an expression of disapproval.

"Mr Abernathy, what are you doing here?"

Renowned as the infamous local drunk, the Great War veteran still had a few admirers in the vicinity, but there were also many people who had accepted that after so much drink and so much time alone, there wasn't much of the war hero left. Katniss, who had once had the misfortune of Haymitch stumbling into her house in the middle of the night, believing it to be his own, considered herself one of the latter.

He squinted at her, as though trying to remember, before a look of dawning realisation hit his face. "Ah, you're the surly one I met a few months back! Sorry about your kitchen, again." He was referring to the vomit stain that still discoloured the floorboards. "Looks like you've had a change of address." He whistled appreciatively as he looked around the bakery. "You didn't get married, did you?"

Katniss glared.

"Anyhow, that's not what I'm here to discuss." He placed a steel helmet with a letter 'W,' which he had been holding behind his back, onto his head. "I'm your local Air Raid Precaution Warden," his eyes narrowed in dislike as Katniss failed to stifle a groan, "and I'm here to check your gas masks."

"Who let you up from the shop?" Katniss asked suspiciously.

"The boy… the blonde one. He's much nicer than you." Haymitch studied a painting on the wall of the corridor. "Did you marry him?"

"No I did not," Katniss said shortly. "This isn't the 19th century, thank you very much."

"Good," Haymitch answered absently. "He's too good for you."

Katniss chose to ignore this comment. As she led him into the kitchen, it occurred to her that she did not know where the gas masks were. Mrs Mellark was in town, shopping for candles and stockings, if Katniss remembered correctly. Mr Mellark was probably in the back of the bakery with Prim, while Peeta manned the shopfront.

"Actually, I think it's best you speak to Mr Mellark," Katniss said briskly, and beckoned him to follow her back the way she came.

"I think that's the best decision you've made all day, sweetheart," Haymitch was smug in response to her scowl. Katniss walked down the stairs silently.

"Mr Mellark?" Katniss asked as she turned the corner from the stairwell into the bakery.

"Katniss?"

It was not Mr Mellark who answered her, but Peeta.

"I thought you were working at the counter," Katniss sighed in exasperation.

Peeta tried not to look too offended. "We swapped. He's at the front and I'm baking."

Katniss groaned, but at Haymitch's smug expression decided to act at least a little more competent. "Do you know where the gas masks are? He's our ARP Warden." She gestured to Haymitch, who made a big fuss over the fact that Katniss didn't know where her own gas mask was kept.

"Here they are." Peeta, apparently unperturbed by Haymitch and Katniss' open bickering, opened a cupboard by the ovens. "We put them here because it's fairly central in the house, and it's near the entrance to our basement too."

"How many people live here?" Haymitch examined the masks.

"Five," Katniss answered sharply, before Peeta could. "Hence the five gas masks."

Glares were exchanged. Peeta groaned. Prim, who had appeared at some point, giggled.

"Do you know how to put these on properly?" Haymitch asked wearily.

Katniss demonstrated, and Prim and Peeta promptly followed suit. Haymitch smiled tightly at the teenagers, unnervingly unhuman in their gas masks.

"Alright, take those off." He waved a hand at them, eyes dipping to the floor. "That's me done for the day. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to have a drink."

Katniss glared at him unblinkingly as he exited the bakery, and was quite sure that Peeta, who was usually so benevolent, was doing the same. Prim, being the most conscientious of the three, was back to icing cakes.

"If he's our ARP Warden, we're all going to die," Peeta said matter-of-factly.

Katniss nodded, and turned to him. "We've got to do something." She paused, considered. "Do you suppose he could use some assistant ARP Wardens?"

* * *

 **Isn't Haymitch just the best thing to happen to this story in several chapters? I'm so glad to have brought him in. Reckon I got his character alright? Things are coming together quite nicely now (hopefully), and we should see the three as a dysfunctional home guard team soon. Anything you're particularly looking forward to? Teaser for next chapter – Glimmer and Alastair have the lunch date from hell.**

 **Please review - I'd love to hear from some new readers! (I hate to beg, but last chapter was a little sad.)**

 **xx - L.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

 _Betrayal is an ironic thing. He or she betrays you then you betray yourself. You think you're showing strength with your anger, but in reality you're showing how much you still care._

 _―_ _Shannon L. Alder_

* * *

11th of August, 1940

When Glimmer wasn't working in the hospital, she was looking to the skies. What had started as a nervous tell had become quite a serious problem – her neck was becoming sore with tension and she was paying even less than the usual attention as to where she was actually going. The problem ran beyond Glimmer's constant skyward focus; this was merely a symptom of her constant preoccupation with the idea of a German invasion. She was paranoid, she knew that, but not without good reason. Alastair, whose father was a prominent figure in the Royal Air Force, spoke of nothing but the Luftwaffe and their attack on the airfields. Glimmer was scared and worn down and had the day off, and she wasn't exactly sure what to do with herself.

The city of London was changed with the war, but in many senses, it was the same. The streets were slightly emptier, and notably devoid of any street signs, which was supposed to prevent German spies from finding their way around. Glimmer, who had never been particularly good at navigation, was sure she was suffering more acutely than any German. The people were, generally speaking, either considerably more anxious or considerably more determined. Glimmer longed to be the latter, someone who dug in their heels and carried on determinedly with life, but she was struggling to find it within her. She wondered if she could perhaps blame this on a childhood that had taught her dressage, ballroom dancing and dinner etiquette, but hadn't presented her with many opportunities to build resilience.

Training as a nurse at Fulham Hospital had been her first experience outside of the sheltered world she grew up in, and had been shocking enough. She wasn't used to people bossing her around, or looking down on her. She certainly wasn't used to blood, or faeces, for that matter. In addition to all of this, the living spaces the training nurses shared were far from luxurious, and Glimmer wore the same drab uniforms as everyone else, regardless on their background. Despite all of this, Glimmer was enjoying the real world. She simply wished it didn't carry the constant threat of an air raid.

Eventually, Glimmer decided to do what she always did when she was in need of a distraction: visit Alastair. A nagging voice in her head, which sounded unnervingly like Marvel's, asked Glimmer whether she had any use for Alastair outside of anxious or bored moments. She told it sharply that she did.

With the sky ominously grey, Glimmer decided against walking and waited at the bus stop for a few minutes, before squeezing her way onto a crowded bus and taking a seat next to a man reading the newspaper. His elbow jutted into her side, and she considered asking him to take more care, but after a few moments of consideration, Glimmer set her jaw and told herself to stop acting like a child. She was twenty years old, she would be nursing on the frontlines soon, and London was debatably under attack. If there was ever a time to grow up, it was now.

Alastair, whose family owned several estates across the country, had moved out of home after falling out with his father, and was currently living in an apartment on the outskirts of London. He had been studying law until the Bore War had evolved into a world war, and after the fighting with his father had become too much, had decided in a fit of independence that he wanted a proper job. As a result, he was now working in the Foreign Office, where his fluency in both French and Spanish meant that he was reasonably valuable as a translator. Glimmer, who was presently approaching his apartment, realised that she hadn't paused to consider whether he was at work or not.

"Glimmer!" A warm voice called from across the street, and she couldn't help but allow a smile to light her face as she recognised the man now crossing the road towards her.

"Fancy seeing you here." Glimmer held out her hand, which was quickly enveloped in Alastair's grip. "I was just about to pay you a visit, when it occurred to me that perhaps you wouldn't be here."

"Well, I'm here now." Alastair embraced her quickly. "Work's been unbelievably hectic, you can't even imagine. Not that I'm allowed to tell you too much," he added, rolling his eyes, "all the confidentiality and that. Apparently some of the documents I'm translating are quite valuable," he paused and frowned, "not that I'd know it. It all seems quite mundane. How's the hospital?"

"Still full of evacuated soldiers, who are all very heartbreaking." She shrugged. "Not as terrible as it was in June, obviously, what with the evacuation of Dunkirk, but it's still quite busy. I had a burns victim today, been trapped in a burning aeroplane, and he was in an absolutely terrible way. More than half of his skin had peeled off…" Glimmer shuddered as she remembered. "I'll spare you the details. The poor man probably won't be alive when I have my next shift, anyhow." She sighed. "Such is the nature of nursing, I suppose."

"Sounds dreadful," Alastair declared emphatically, as he unlocked the door to his apartment and the two stepped inside. "Have you had luncheon? We could go out, if you'd like."

"That sounds lovely," Glimmer agreed. "I've barely eaten all day. Where would you like to go?"

The couple discussed various potential places to eat as they walked down a London street, hands entwined and laughter frequent. Glimmer liked being with Alastair, liked the way that he eased her worries. She warningly told the voice in her head that there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.

After a few minutes of light-hearted bickering, with Glimmer coming out on top, she and Alastair settled at a table of a café, where Glimmer enthusiastically consumed the first proper meal she'd had all day. Everything was as it typically was with the couple, until the sandwiches had been consumed and an uncharacteristic graveness settled on Alastair's features.

"Glimmer, I've been thinking-" he attempted to voice what was bothering him, sighed in frustration, and tried a second time. "Every day, my arm is getting better and better." He held up his right arm, where a light bandage was visible emerging from his sleeve. "It won't be long until I can pass that medical test. I'm going to enlist."

Glimmer's eyes widened. "Enlist?" she groaned. "Oh Alastair, why would you do such a thing? You're making a perfectly valid contribution to the war effort here, with your translating, and I love having you here, love knowing that you're safe."

"I didn't think you'd like that," Alastair muttered, raking a hand through his dark hair. "Glimmer, there are other people at work who speak Spanish and French. They can take up the slack, and they want to. I don't like it. I don't like being here, and I definitely don't like my work." He paused for a moment, lips moving soundlessly, as though testing out words. "There are people here who see me walk the streets, and they are disgusted with me. Every time they see me happy, they are disgusted with me, because they think I should be out fighting to keep Britain safe."

"But you are helping, you are-" Glimmer began.

"It's made its way into my mind, Glimmer," Alastair said resolutely, "the disgust. It's made its way into my mind, and now I feel it too. I can't be here, can't be happy with you, without feeling it." He sighed deeply. "I want to fight. And that's exactly what I'm going to do."

"But what about me? What about your mother, your father-"

"I don't care for my family," he said stonily. "There's a reason I'm living in a dingy apartment, and it's not family fondness. As for you…" He sighed. "I can't be happy with you Glimmer. Not while there are so many men who need my help."

Glimmer looked into Alastair's dark eyes, and saw no trace of anything but sincerity. He would not change his mind. Alastair cared a great deal for ideals; she'd forgotten that she loved this about him. "Were you thinking army, or RAF, or navy?" she asked eventually, voice flat.

"RAF," he answered absent-mindedly. His face was still pained, and Glimmer dreaded to think what other secrets he wished to unburden himself of.

"What is it?" she asked heavily, stomach twisting with dread.

"I thought that perhaps…" He shook his head in frustration, and sighed. "Glimmer, it's going to be hard for me to leave."

He said nothing more until she prompted him with a slight nod of her head.

"I thought that maybe it would be easier for both of us if we stopped seeing each other now. I don't want you to wait for me," he released these words in a sad exhalation, and avoided her eyes.

Glimmer briefly considered being rational, but a hot anger was running through her, and she wasn't in the mood to fight it.

"First, you tell me you're going to enlist, and then, you decide to tell me that you don't want me anymore." She stood up, grabbing her coat and nearly knocking over the table. "Alastair Garraway, this is not how you take a lady out to luncheon."

And with that, and a very unladylike snarl, Glimmer stormed out the door.

* * *

 **Well, it's not a very action-filled chapter - sorry - but I felt these two characters deserved this (particularly Alastair, who I'm afraid I abandon for a good fifteen or so chapters after this) and I also enjoyed it as an opportunity through which to explore war-time Britain and the general vibe. How did you guys find this? Are you desperate for more action, or happy with the pace?**

 **Either way, fortunately you've got a much more exciting chapter coming up, that spans bomb wreckage to the Indian Ocean. Teaser for next chapter – Madge, Prim, Rory and Katniss clean up after the first bombing of London. Cato and his brother talk about the people they left behind.**

 **xx - L.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

 _Do not indulge in dreams of having what you have not, but reckon up the chief of the blessings you do possess, and then thankfully remember how you would crave for them if they were not yours._

― Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

* * *

25th of August, 1940

"I know I'm no expert tactician," Madge said tiredly, "but I'm not sure bombing Berlin is exactly what the situation demands."

"Why not?" Rory asked incredulously, as he loaded some rubble onto a cart. "They bombed us, we bomb them."

"Logic like that and you could be Prime Minister." The corners of Madge's mouth twitched upwards. "See Rory, the bombing of Berlin doesn't really give us a tactical advantage. We're not going to raze the city to the ground – we know it, and the Germans know it. All it's going to do is kill a few pilots, kill a few German citizens, reduce a few buildings to rubble-" she waved her hands illustratively, "and make Hitler incredibly angry. What'll happen if he decides to get revenge?"

"I did hear that the Germans weren't actually aiming for London," Prim added from her position sitting on the remains of a brick wall, making up first aid kits. "In which case going off to bomb Berlin might be a little out of proportion. That said," she frowned, "it would seem Hitler's pretty keen to destroy us already, wouldn't it Madge?"

"I suppose you're right," Madge conceded with a shrug. "I just shudder to think that an accidental bombing on one occasion could result in a long-term air raid."

Katniss, who had been silent throughout the entirety of this conversation, considered this. The idea of an air raid that lasted not one scary night, but weeks, even months, was unimaginable to her. Even here, helping out in the wake of a possibly accidental German bombing in London, it was difficult for Katniss to think of the rubble as anything else. This space had been a house, not so long ago, but Katniss, who hadn't felt at home in years, couldn't see the tragedy.

"You, come help over here!" One of the men in charge of the clean-up operation beckoned Rory. "We need someone strong to help us lift this!"

Apparently pleased with being acknowledged as strong, Rory swaggered off to help. Katniss rolled her eyes as she noticed Prim's gaze follow him.

"So I spoke to Peeta this morning," Madge began, eyes trained on the pavement she swept, "who told me that you two," she directed her gaze at Katniss, "were going to help out our ARP Warden." She raised her eyebrows. "Care to explain the situation?"

"Oh." Katniss smiled down at her dusty hands. "Well, you know Haymitch Abernathy. Absolutely useless. He volunteered for some of the manual labour building bomb shelters a few years back, and then somehow his duties evolved into being a warden. Obviously, we didn't feel too safe with our lives in his hands. So we decided to help him out."

"What sort of work have you been doing?" Madge asked curiously.

"Yesterday we made sure the local shelter was equipped with the blankets, batteries, torches, all that," Katniss listed, "we even threw some playing cards in there. And we went around making sure that everyone who didn't have a shelter knew where it was. We helped old Mrs Mason with her blackout curtains, which weren't fastened properly." Katniss shrugged. "Things like that."

"It's excellent you're doing all these things for the community," Madge said earnestly, "a fantastic initiative. There are so many of us busy at work all the time, it's nice to know there's someone back home taking care of things."

"Yes, yes, it's all excellent, except that she leaves me behind," Prim grumbled, slamming a first aid kit shut with a malice one normally didn't see in her.

"Prim's bored," Katniss informed Madge. "I wish I could do something about it, but I'm not having her getting involved in this warden business, because it may very well get dangerous soon, and I don't want her to have any grounds with which to justify putting herself in danger." She paused, looked back at her sister. "Did you hear that Prim? I'm not letting you join because I value your life too much."

"Yes, I heard," Prim sighed, then added, "though that doesn't mean I have to agree."

* * *

There was nothing Thomas wanted more than to get off this God-forsaken ship. He was quite certain that he would give a limb or perhaps even an eye if it meant he could leave right now and never get on another boat again. It would appear that the Dunera had not been sufficiently stocked with food, and Thomas' stomach ached with hunger, only a handful of hours after their meagre dinner.

Cato, who had two days ago attempted to defend a Jewish man from an aggressive and pro-Nazi German prisoner of war, was uncharacteristically silent. The man had beaten him easily, and tonight, nursing a black eye and bruised ribs, Cato was, for perhaps the first time in his life, truly humbled. Thomas had long wished for this day to come, but not these circumstances. In that moment, he would give anything to have his headstrong, fiery brother back.

Nicholas was even more disoriented than Thomas about Cato's change in demeanour. He'd been the one to break up the fight, which had earned him a stray punch or two, as well as a contemptuously delivered threat from his son's aggressor. He now watched everyone with fear, and when the same Jewish man was later set upon again yesterday, none of the Ludwigs had intervened.

"No wonder no one in Germany's opposing the Party," Thomas had said matter-of-factly, as the Ludwig boys watched the awful beating take place. He was especially pensive now that the guards had taken his books away, on the account of one of them being written in German and the soldiers generally being bored. As their father was fond of lamenting, Thomas' head was in the clouds, thinking of big problems and not fixing the smaller, more immediate ones. He was, put simply, apparently quite useless.

The sullen mood was taking its toll on all the passengers aboard the Dunera, and Nicholas Ludwig was suffering particularly acutely. Just yesterday, Cato had asked his older brother whether he'd ever seen his father's temper so short. Upon considering this, Thomas had told Cato that it was worse when the twins were babies. Mention of Simon and Max, of course, made the two young men even more miserable.

That night, one of his father's more potent rages coincided with a lack of soldiers watching over them, (one of them was apparently having their birthday, and they were all getting drunk to celebrate,) Thomas woke his brother and, in a fit of uncharacteristic boldness, decided that they should venture onto the deck.

"Come on Cato." He gripped his sleepy brother's shoulders tightly. "Wouldn't you like to be able to breathe again?"

"I don't know." Cato rubbed a hand over his face. "What if they catch us?"

"They won't catch us." Thomas wasn't entirely sure of this, but the time had finally come for him to take some risks. "What's wrong Cato? Usually you'd be the one convincing me."

"I'm just…" His eyes flicked to the ground. "Remember the black eye and the generally swollen face a few weeks back?"

"You got into a fight, you said," Thomas said with a frown.

"I got into a fight with a bunch of soldiers," Cato clarified. "They're after my blood now."

"Oh God Cato," Thomas moaned. He was briefly frustrated with his brother, but this feeling dissipated as he saw the lines fear had carved in Cato's face. "Alright, we do need to get you out of here. We're going onto the deck, and if anyone comes, I promise I'll take the punches."

It didn't take much more coaxing, and the brothers managed to slip away without waking the cramped internees. The only accessible route was a tricky one, but the suddenly alert pair managed to hoist themselves out of the dingy hold.

"I have to say Thomas," Cato's voice was hushed, "this was one of your better ideas."

The air was significantly cooler up on the deck, and tasted of a crisp salt that soothed Thomas' fitful lungs. After hours of smelling nothing but the stench of bodies, this was bliss. The stars, which the internees had not once seen, only being let onto the deck for half an hour during the day, were magnificent in the clear sky.

"They're different!" Thomas exclaimed ecstatically.

Cato gave him the same look he always gave him when Thomas retreated so far into his own thoughts that very little he said made sense.

"The stars, they're different in the southern hemisphere," Thomas clarified, not taking his eyes off of them. "Yes, that's it! The constellation I read about."

Stepping forward so as to stand next to his brother, Cato frowned as he looked upwards. "I hate to ruin the mood Thomas, but I still don't know which one you're talking about."

"It's called the Southern Cross," Thomas told his younger brother, pointing. "See, those four are the end points, and there's that little fifth one…" Thomas' voice trailed off. "We're going to Australia."

"Are you sure?" Cato asked.

"I think so. The Southern Cross – that's one of its emblems. I think we're further south than Singapore, and I doubt they'd send us to New Zealand. Plus, Australia's already got a history as a dumping ground for Britain's unwanted. Convicts, enemy aliens…" he trailed off, grinning. "There's not a great deal of difference."

"Australia," Cato tested the name on his tongue. "That's a long way from Britain."

Thomas smiled, and it was not all sadness. He liked being the older brother; he liked these moments when Cato needed him. He didn't get a lot of them anymore, and was eager to reassure his younger brother.

"They'll realise their mistake," Thomas told him. "They must. They'll send us back after the war is over." Thomas paused, frowned. "You miss Clove?"

"I don't," Cato said shortly.

"Do you love her?" Thomas pressed.

"Absolutely not." Cato's face turned into the stony mask he used when he didn't want his emotions read.

Thomas laughed, and decided to stop teasing. "Of course not." His eyes skipped over the endless expanse of water. "I never thought I'd say this, but I do miss those brothers of ours." Thomas considered. "That said, they'd be absolute horrors on this ship, wouldn't they?"

"One month," Cato murmured. "One month older, and they'd be here too."

"Well, I suppose that tells us we still have things to be thankful for."

Cato shrugged in half-hearted agreement. "Some things."

* * *

 **Feels when Madge literally predicts the entirety of the London Blitz... (hindsight's great, isn't it?) How did we like Thomas? Again, I'm pretty tentative with brand new or unexplored characters, so I hope he's okay (give me some tips if he's not!)**

 **I'm trying to find the best time to post chapters - I've gathered around twice a week is good pace, but I'm stuck for times. I've certainly observed that posting at some times gets a whole lot more views than others. I'm getting the vibe that most of you guys are in the States? If you feel comfortable doing so, drop your time zone in a review or PM and let me know your preferred update time if you have one. I did this on one of my other stories and we were actually able to find a compromise that worked quite well.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Clove meets Johanna Mason (who's keen for some Johanna?) as she signs up for the Auxiliary Territorial Service, and Rory and Prim go looking for a way to solve their boredom.**

 **xx - L.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

 _Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage._

 _–_ _Anais Nin_

* * *

2nd of September, 1940

"Good morning." The woman at the desk did not smile, nor did she even move her gaze to acknowledge Clove.

"'Morning." Clove could not help a scowl from marring her features. She supposed as long as the woman stubbornly looked at the paper in front of her, it wouldn't matter anyhow. "I'd like to sign up for the Auxiliary Territorial Service."

"Would you?" The woman still did not look up, but from what Clove could see of her facial features, this seemed to amuse her somewhat.

"Yes," Clove answered stubbornly. She wasn't sure what this woman had against her joining up, but she was sure that if she could persuade her mother, she could persuade her too. "I would."

"We've had a lot of girls saying that who've later dropped out." At this, the woman did look up. Her hazel eyes were shining with something that might have been determination, or could have simply been humour. "Some people think it's great so many are coming in, but I'm going for quality rather than quantity. So I'm sure you'll excuse me for making sure you're informed about what the ATS involves."

Clove was slightly taken aback by this. "Of course."

The woman pointed to a poster of a woman above the message _'Join the ATS'_. Clove looked at it blankly.

"Do you realise that you will not do your work in lipstick?" the woman asked.

Clove suppressed a roll of her eyes. "Yes."

"Do you realise that you will not have immaculate hair and an elegant hat?"

"Yes."

"Do you realise that you will be wearing khaki?"

"Yes."

"Do you realise that you may be working as anything from potato peeler to ambulance driver to cleaner to anti-aircraft gunner?"

Clove raised her brows mildly, and answered, "I do now."

"And what do you think of that?" The woman moved forward in her chair so as to properly challenge Clove.

"I think I'd like to join," Clove maintained firmly, "especially if I get to work as an anti-aircraft gunner."

"Marvellous." The woman's demeanour changed notably at this, and she almost smiled as she picked up a pen. "My name's Johanna Mason, and I'm sorry for being in a shocking mood. They've got me doing deskwork, you see…" She wiped some hair from her face. "It's a joke. But anyhow, not my lot to complain." She tapped the paper with her pen. "Full name please."

"Clove Fuhrman," Clove winced as the words escaped her mouth and Johanna's face darkened somewhat.

"You're a German?" she asked.

"Do I sound German?" Clove challenged. She paused. She was not going to say it. She was not going to start a fight in the middle of the Auxiliary Territorial Service office. It blurted out. "The government's already gone and deported my clock-making father. I think I've been punished enough for my heritage."

Johanna held Clove's gaze, and sunk back into her chair. "Perhaps you have. I don't suppose I can turn you away on the basis of your surname." She paused, challenged Clove in return. "This isn't Germany we're living in."

Clove refused to allow her scowl to form. "For that I am thankful."

Johanna smiled openly now. "I'll see what I can do about getting you into the anti-aircraft squad."

* * *

There seemed to be something magnetic about the latest bombsite. The Germans had hit London multiple times since the scare that Prim had hoped would be a one-off occasion. For Prim, who lived in a house with a deep cellar and lots of blankets, the damage to her city was yet to feel real or particularly dangerous. She wondered how or why she was able to be so callous. Typically speaking, this wasn't her way. Despite the reports of the deaths and the ferocious sound of the bombs, Prim found there was something exciting about walking the streets in the day after a raid.

Rory Hawthorne may well have been the reason she had experienced this drastic change in character. She began to associate him with the crashes of the bombs; he shook the world too, albeit in a different way. There was an unspoken agreement that they would meet in the streets after a raid. He would meet her and smile, and his smile would be metallic. His grey eyes were the colour of the rubble. Perhaps she simply learned to love the bomb-torn world because Rory loved it. Perhaps she was prepared to do that for him.

"Imagine if we found something," he said presently, pushing half a brick aside with his boot. "Something valuable that had survived the blast."

She looked up at him. He was squinting with the wind. She tore her gaze from his face, and looked around the wreckage instead. "What could survive that?"

"I don't know." He shrugged. "Diamonds. Something in a safe." He grinned at her as he childishly added, "Buried treasure."

She laughed. "If the safe survived, then we still wouldn't be able to open it," she pointed out. "As for diamonds…" She shrugged. "We'd be lucky to find diamonds."

"Well keep your eyes out." He kicked another piece of rubble. This was lighter than the half brick had been, and skittered across the street. "I could use a diamond."

"Could you?" Prim asked. "What would you use a diamond for?"

"I'd sell it, stupid." He folded his arms, but she knew that his disdain was insincere. "We're not all living in a bakery, you know."

She allowed the jibe to wash over her. She knew that his life had made Rory cynical. She would forgive him that. She'd pretend it wasn't this quality that made her heart race.

"So you'd get food?" She watched him nod in confirmation, and asked, "What food would you buy?"

"I'd get…" Rory looked to the sky as he thought. "There's not much food around, is there? Maybe I could buy a couple cows off a farmer."

"What, and keep them in the lane?" Prim giggled.

Rory grinned at the ground as he shook his head. As he looked up to see her, a few strands of dark hair flopped forward. Prim felt her heart skip as he eventually replied, "You're making this hard for me, Primrose."

They'd made their way to the centre of the mess, where the bomb had hit. Standing at the point of impact, looking at the chaos around her, Prim could almost pretend it was her that had detonated, that had pushed the walls apart. She wished she had that fire about her. She wondered if that would make Rory like her more. He had it in spadefuls.

"I'd use the money to move back home." Prim channelled her inner Rory and kicked at a piece of rubble. She found it oddly satisfying. "I'm sick of the Mellarks."

"Ah, don't say that Prim," Rory insisted, shaking his head. "They're giving you a life that you've never lived before! A life that I've never lived before," he added, and watched her closely for her response.

"You'd say it too," she challenged him. "They're boring. They're even making Katniss boring." She paused. "I'd much rather live with you."

Rory was close to her now; close enough to feel her breath on him. He grinned cheekily, looked at her out of dark eyes. "Would you?"

"Of course I would." Prim tried not to sound so breathless.

"Well," he began, and stepped back. She watched him dance lightly across the rubble back towards the road. He called over his shoulder, "In that case, you'd best keep your eyes peeled for that diamond!"

* * *

 **How'd we like the Johanna and Clove banter? I can't decide which is sassier, and I have to say, they're definitely two of my favourite characters in this piece. The segment with Prim and Rory might seem a little out of the blue, but I'm trying to explore Prim a bit more because throughout this story I'll be taking her outside of what we saw from her in the book - she was fairly one-dimensional in her role, and I'm trying to show a different side of her in a believable way. Am I doing an okay job?**

 **Teaser for next chapter: The HMT** ** _Dunera_** **lands in Sydney, Australia. (I have to say I'm crazy pumped.) Review and make my day!**

 **xx - L.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

 _"_ _I am from there. I am from here._

 _I am not there and I am not here._

 _I have two names, which meet and part,_

 _and I have two languages._

 _I forget which of them I dream in."_

― Mahmoud Darwish

* * *

6th of September, 1940

Cato could not stop staring at the sky. They'd been allowed to stand on the deck as the ship pulled into the harbour, admittedly only as it was convenient to the crew; it would speed the process of unloading everyone, and they could get started on cleaning the quarters under the deck. Cato hoped that the soldiers would be helping with the cleaning - it was only fitting that they clean up the filth they had made them live in. He felt as though the sun was already beginning to heal the infection in his skin. All around him, men lay on the decks, greedily exposing themselves to the sun's dying rays. Other hung over the railing, hands reaching out wistfully towards the blue of the water. It was a beautiful evening in Australia.

According to Thomas, who'd managed to convince one of the softer crewmembers to allow them to glimpse the map when the soldiers weren't around, they were in Sydney Harbour. Cato was sure it was the most beautiful place on earth.

"It's nicer than England," he told his older brother.

Thomas smiled wryly. "I don't suppose it has many established universities."

"I don't suppose you'd be going to any, even if there was one," their father reminded them, but even his cynicism lacked its usual venom. "Enjoy the sunset, Thomas."

Made agreeable by the prospect of their torturous journey finally coming to an end, Thomas submitted to his father's wishes unusually humbly, murmuring, "Marvellous idea."

The roaring engines of the ship had finally gone to rest now. Cato wanted nothing more than to get to the dock, stand on stable ground again, but he knew that he must wait. The ramp was down, but no passengers were departing the ship. Instead, men in uniform – Australian uniform, it must have been – were boarding.

"Oh Jesus, that's the last thing we need," Cato grumbled. "Convict authority figures."

Thomas, who was always quick to sober up, looked at him warningly.

"I'll be nice," Cato assured his brother quickly.

Thomas needn't have worried. The men, after inspecting the ship and its sun-soaked passengers, had frowns driven into their faces. Cato watched the officer approach two men who must have been Lieutenant-Colonel Scott and Sergeant Helliwell, two figures Cato had not met personally but heard whispers of. Running the operation, apparently. They looked less intimidating than he had imagined them, especially with this officer standing over them. Apparently, they made them tall in Australia.

"Lieutenant-Colonel, Sergeant," he began, inclining his head, "tell me. Were you transporting humans," his voice was crisp, his accent ringing oddly in Cato's ears, "or livestock?"

"Enemy aliens." Scott did not seem as intimidated as he should have been.

"I understand that," the officer retaliated darkly, and his face did not soften, "but which of the two categories I presented to you do these enemy aliens fit under?"

"Humans, Officer," Scott conceded grudgingly.

"The conditions these humans have been subject to are appalling and reminiscent of the atrocities committed by a side we are supposed to be opposing," the officer said softly. "I can assure you there will be a report, and there will be a court martial. For now, please cooperate with my men as we remove these men from the ship."

Cato grinned broadly as he made his way off. His wobbly sea legs on land were a source of amusement rather than frustration. He hadn't dared to hope that these men would answer for what they did. He hadn't dared to hope that the Australians would be more than servants to the British. However, all the hope he had felt turned to dread in his gut as he saw where they were being directed.

"A train?" he asked in exasperation. "I can't do any more of this."

One of the soldiers who were escorting him turned sharply at this. Cato grimaced, prepared for the punishment.

"I'm afraid it's a long train trip, too," the soldier said, and his Australian accent, the absolute lack of malice in his voice, had Cato at ease. "None of us are looking forward to it, to be honest. It'll be okay, though," he added hurriedly, at the look of pain on Cato's face. "We've got some food, some ciggies, and most of it'll be during the night."

Thomas frowned. "When you say that you have food and cigarettes… does that mean we do, too?"

"Jesus, of course!" the soldier exclaimed, brows shooting upwards. He was young, Cato saw now. He shook his head in disbelief. "It's a nineteen hour trip, we're not going to let you starve. Plus, everyone's in a bit better of a mood if they've got a ciggie. We're not looking for mutiny."

Thomas did something he had not done in years, and hugged Cato out of sheer joy as they walked, burying his face in his shoulder.

"I suppose it's true then," the soldier said carefully, after a moment's consideration. "The med officers on the boat were absolutely filthy with the British lot. Apparently you were sitting in your own shit."

"It was the decks that were flooded with shit," Cato said tiredly. "The only bodily fluid where we slept was vomit, and that was mainly on rough nights."

"Jesus," the soldier said once more, emphatically.

Cato nodded sombrely.

Thomas looked quizzically at the soldier. "So, you don't hate us as much as the British, then?"

"Nah." The soldier waved a dismissive hand. "From what I've heard, most of you aren't Nazis anyway."

"And if we were?" Thomas pressed.

His question wasn't answered immediately; their conversation forced to pause as the men clambered into the train and found a place to sit, whether it be on the seats or floor. Cato was lucky enough to grab a seat – he wasn't feeling generous enough to give it up – and Thomas and the soldier sat next to each other on the floor. Cato thought it odd that the soldier didn't feel the need to stand over them. He merely carried on with the conversation as though nothing had happened.

"Well, if you are a crazy fascist then there's no better place for you to be, because no one here's political and out where we're going, there's no one for you to kill." The soldier shrugged, and added, "I can tell you're not."

Thomas smiled wryly. "I wish the British were as perceptive."

"They're a bunch of idiots, aren't they, the Poms?" He grinned broadly and cheekily at this, blue eyes sparking. "No offense to you, if you consider yourself British. Plus, it's not like I can really talk, as an Aussie. We're still living under Britain's thumb." He rolled his eyes. "What I mean is, we're not going to treat you like they did." Apparently eager to prove his sincerity, he fished around in his pocket. "Either of you like a ciggie?"

"I don't smoke, thanks," Thomas said.

Cato merely shook his head. He was tired now; God, he was tired. Week after week on a ship where he never felt safe to sleep. Where the ocean would toss you, the soldiers would rob you and the men would rip you apart. Finally, there was peace. The rattle of the train was comfortable. Here in Australia, thousands of miles from England – a world away – it seemed that there was no war at all. There would be no air raid tonight. There would be only the breathing of the men, the breathing of the soldiers. The soldiers who had given them back their humanity with an off-handed grin, some self-deprecation and the offer of a cigarette.

"Your loss." The soldier shrugged, eyes still alight with a bit of a grin. He turned to Thomas, cigarette between his teeth. "Can you hold my rifle while I light it?"

* * *

 **AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE (sorry, I had to.) Fun fact – there really were reports of Australian soldiers getting the deportees to hold their guns for them. I suppose that serves to illustrate we've always been dangerously chill over here… Sorry if the start of the chapter was a bit clunky - I wasn't really happy with it, but struggled to pinpoint anything to fix up. Hopefully it gets better as it goes.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Fresh out of training and on the verge of being deployed, Marvel works up the courage to keep his promise to Glimmer. (Are we up to goodbye number three now? Those two make me laugh.)**

 **xx -L.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

 _One of the tasks of true friendship is to listen compassionately and creatively to the hidden silences. Often secrets are not revealed in words, they lie concealed in the silence between the words or in the depth of what is unsayable between two people._

― John O'Donohue

* * *

8th of September, 1940

Glimmer arrived home on her day off from hospital work to find a marginally hysterical Amelia waiting for her on the doorstep. Curls bouncing and face animated, she babbled incoherently.

"What's wrong?" Glimmer asked frantically as she made her way up the stairs towards her front door, where Amelia stood. She felt a her stomach clench as something seemed to drop within her. "Tell me it's not got anything to do with the bombing last night…"

"Oh, nothing like that!" Amelia shook her head and assured her, "We're all quite alright. It's good news, actually."

Glimmer raised her brows. "Good news?"

Amelia nodded earnestly. Glimmer wondered how it was that she'd become so cynical that the prospect of good news had been entirely out of her mind. She returned her focus to her sister, whose hands were clasped together in excitement. "You'll never guess."

"I'm sure I won't." Glimmer reached the top of the stairs, and entered the house with her younger sister. "So you should tell me whatever this terribly exciting news is."

"Let's get some food first." Amelia grabbed her sister by the hand and dragged her into the kitchen. This was usually the realm of Janine, the cook they'd had since Amelia was born, but she had retired now from her arthritis, and they hadn't been able to find a replacement. Fortunately, Amelia didn't seem to mind cooking, and buttered some bread cheerfully. "So, I was outside yesterday morning, reading by the oak trees, when it happened," she began, smiling at the bread.

Glimmer rolled her eyes. "If this is about Billy Feldman…"

"It's not," Amelia said shortly. "Anyhow, I was reading when I saw a young man walking through the oak trees towards me."

"This is sounding startlingly like a story about Billy Feldman," Glimmer teased.

"Oh, shut up and stop interrupting me, or you'll never hear who it was!" Amelia ruined her threat with laughter. "So, a young man walked up to me, and I felt as though I vaguely recognised him. He was in uniform, and he took off his cap – he had one of those lovely service caps – and he asked me if _you_ were around."

"He asked for me?" Glimmer frowned. "That can't be right. I promise you Amelia, I am quite single at the moment."

"Well, you have a suitor, in that case," Amelia said with a grin. "I recognised him eventually. I'm not sure if you'll find him suitable."

"That's for me to decide, isn't it?" Glimmer took some of the bread from her sister impatiently. "Who was it?"

"Marvel Quaid," Amelia said, in a rush of giggles. "You know, the one who used to work with the horses? He said you'd told him he must say goodbye to you before he was deployed, and wanted to know when you had leave." Amelia paused, watching Glimmer closely for her reaction. "I told him."

"Well," Glimmer began, conscious of trying to keep her face blank, "I'm glad you did, because in fact, I did tell him he had to say goodbye before he was deployed."

"You did?" Amelia gasped, and collapsed into giggles. "Well Glimmer, I must say you're terribly modern. First an atheist sportsman who has rejected his thoroughly suitable family, now an employee without a penny to his name-"

"Is he really coming over?" Glimmer asked before Amelia's admittedly classist rant could escalate.

"Well, I assume so, because I told him that if he wanted to see you before he left his only chance was today at lunchtime." Amelia shrugged, smile still quirking her lips. "I can't believe you actually told him-"

"Oh, shut up Amelia," Glimmer grumbled, and she turned to face the window. "When he comes, I want you out of here, alright?"

"Alright," Amelia agreed sulkily. "I suppose you'll need me to make sure father doesn't see him." She paused. "Now, please, don't get too modern and bed him before he leaves."

"Amelia!" Glimmer exclaimed shrilly, throwing the crust of the bread at her. "I would do no such thing!"

"Goodness, I know," Amelia assured her sister, picking the bread out of her hair. "I was just teasing. You're going terribly red, you know."

"I am not," Glimmer gritted out. "Now leave, please."

Amelia, perhaps in fear of Glimmer throwing something else at her, demonstrated good sense and left the room, leaving Glimmer alone with the thought of Marvel Quaid.

She did not know why she had told him that he must say goodbye to her. She did not know why the prospect of that goodbye had her acting so silly. Of course, she could hazard a guess. Amelia had certainly done so. But she couldn't love him, could she? He was both significantly poorer and significantly less conventionally attractive than Alastair had been. But still, she had told him to come and say goodbye.

She could see him walking up the drive now. She knew that for secrecy's sake, she should go out and meet him. A knock on the door would have her father asking questions. Glimmer stood up on aching feet, and told herself to stop being so childish. The way her stomach jumped and churned was entirely unnecessary. No man was worthy of her nerves. She opened the front door, and stood, waiting for him. He was, she saw for the first time, quite handsome. Perhaps he had been right about women being enamoured with men in uniform.

"Hello." She did not know what else to say.

"Hello." He took off his cap, and paused. "I suppose your sister told you I was coming?"

Glimmer nodded. "Yes, just then actually." She felt her hands twisting around each other nervously. "I didn't think you'd come."

"Of course I came," Marvel said with a roll of his eyes. "You told me, on no uncertain terms, that I had to."

Glimmer nodded. She had spoken, and he had listened. He had always listened to her, no matter how foolish or childish her words had been. If there was no money or class to love him for, perhaps she could love him for that.

"Thank you for listening."

"It's my pleasure," he murmured, and inclined his head. "It always has been."

There was a silence, in which something prevented Glimmer from looking Marvel in the eyes. She'd never been this shy before. Eventually, she said, "You know, I'll be leaving just a week after you. I'm going to North Africa as well."

He almost smiled at this. "Are you really?" He paused. "I'd say that I hope to see you, except I suppose that I want to stay out of the hospital."

"I hope that I get a night off, and that I can see you then," Glimmer said, before blushing. "Well, not specifically a _night_ off, of course. It could be a day, or-"

He chuckled at this. "I understand."

She smiled at him. "You always do."

* * *

 **What dear spuds those two are... Sorry for disappearing on you all for a little bit there! I had one of those weeks in which I forgot there was a world outside of school. Fortunately, it's Friday, and I'm returning to the real world.**

 **I'm not going to sulk about the lack of feedback last chapter, because I'm sure you guys have better things to do than write about my story, but I will ask: was the chapter actually bad? If it was bad, I want to hear about it. If it's just one of those weeks, don't mind me.**

 **Teaser for next chapter:** ** _The Duchess of Devonshire_** **sets sail for Egypt, with the 7** **th** **Armoured Division on board.**

 **xx - L.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

 _"_ _What is that feeling when you're driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? - it's the too-huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies."_

― Jack Kerouac

* * *

15th of September, 1940

All around Madge, people were rushing back and forth, and she could feel the emotions in the air as tangible as the wind that rushed from the sea and turned her skin salty. Some were crying, others smiling with varying levels of sincerity, some radiating genuine pride. It was the time for the men joining the 7th Armoured Division to set sail for Egypt, and while Madge had known this day was coming for quite some time, she wasn't quite prepared for the emotions to rush and tear at her in such a way. The liner that was to take them away, _The Duchess of Devonshire,_ was large and rather impressive by the Liverpool port, and already, the men were piling on.

The sea breeze was sharp despite the weak rays of sun, and she tightened her coat around herself and turned her back into the wind. It was this action that allowed her to catch sight of Peeta Mellark and Primrose Everdeen, Peeta bending over to murmur something to the younger girl. Madge quickened her pace as she walked towards the two of them, disjointed thoughts flying through her head. If she could find Peeta and Prim, she could find Katniss. And if she could find Katniss, she could find Gale.

Madge wasn't entirely sure why she thought it was so important to find Gale before he left, and was even less sure as to whether she would even have to courage to speak to him if she did manage to track him down. She wondered, briefly, whether he'd be angry with her, then reasoned, rather callously, that he could handle it.

"Peeta!" Madge waved as she continued to advance towards them. "I didn't think I'd see you here."

"I think everyone's here," Peeta said with a shrug. "It's packed, isn't it? Katniss wanted to say goodbye to Gale and Thom, so we thought we'd come along. Have a little day trip. Get out of the house. It's not all too pleasant in the bakery at the moment, is it Prim?" He nudged the petite blonde standing beside him.

"No." Prim shook her head vehemently. "I burnt some cookies. There was screaming. It was all very dramatic." She turned her face into the wind, eyes closed and a small smile on her face, then looked back to Madge. "I'm quite enjoying this by comparison."

"Well, if anything shocking is happening in the future, feel free to come to my place. Although I imagine I won't be there..." she added as an afterthought, before giving the pair a small smile. "You'll just have to chat to my father. I can imagine worse punishments. Now… where is Katniss?"

"She went over there." Peeta gave a vague nod. "She was with Gale and Rory."

Madge turned, and Peeta fell into step beside her.

"Prim!" he called behind him. "We're going to find the Hawthornes. Come with us."

There were hundreds of people on the docks, and Madge squinted as she looked for the tall frames and dark heads that meant Hawthorne boys. "Did you say this way?"

Peeta nodded, biting the side of his cheek, then releasing it. "You want to see Gale, right?"

Madge faltered. "I want to see all the Hawthornes."

"Yes, but you want to see Gale," Peeta maintained, and laughed. "It's fine Madge. I think he'll be happy to see you, if that makes you feel any better."

Madge snorted. "Gale Hawthorne is never happy to see anyone, least of all me."

"Gale's happy when he sees me," Prim pointed out pertly, giving Madge a teasing grin. "Sorry. Am I allowed to ask whether anything is going on between you two?"

"Nothing." Madge swept a strand of hair from her face. "Honestly Prim," she added, as the young girl gave a mischievous smile. "I just want to say goodbye," she said sternly, and looked around the docks, taking in the hectic scene. "I think all this sailing off into the uncertainty causes a certain nostalgia. It's so sad, really, that our boys are going off to fight."

"It is," Prim agreed, nodding pensively. "I wish I could do something, sometimes. Especially today, seeing them go off like this."

"Oh, there's plenty of work around here for you Prim, what with the men all going away," Peeta assured her. "What about you Madge? Will you help on the home front, or will you be off?"

Madge paused. She had made her decision, but asides from her father and some fellow nurses, had not told anyone. The thought of voicing her future scared her; it would only serve, Madge reasoned, to make it more real. After a few moments of hesitation, she eventually decided that with the men leaving today, her suffering was really rather pathetic, and that now was a good a time as any.

"I'll be joining them in North Africa," she told them, trying to retain a calm intonation. "My ship leaves next week, actually." Her voice trailed off, the last of it swept into the wind as her eyes landed on a tall young man with hair dark as coal and skin that had seen a thousand days of sun.

"You're leaving next week! I had no-"

"I found them," Prim said glumly.

Madge was not surprised by the sadness in Prim's tone, because looking at Katniss and the Hawthornes the sadness was palpable. Hazelle was crying, which Madge was fairly sure no one had ever seen her do, Posy was having some sort of fit and refusing to let go of her brother's leg, Vick was stubbornly swiping at his eyes and Rory was scowling, arms folded and jaw jutting. Katniss' eyes were trained at the ground, and Gale was looking at her with a startling intensity. Madge knew this wasn't a situation that anyone, least of all her, should intrude upon.

"I'm sorry Peeta," Madge mumbled, turning to the boy beside her. "We should just go-"

"Madge." Peeta's tone was grave as he inclined his head.

Madge followed his gaze. Posy Hawthorne had been gulping for air between sobs and coughs, one arm stubbornly wrapped around Gale's left calf, but she'd finally stopped sobbing for long enough to look at Madge. A small hand, trembling, reached towards her, and Posy's small lips formed her name. Without thinking, Madge was on her knees and opening her arms, which Posy ran into, proceeding to cry on her shoulder. Madge stood up with a huffing exhalation, scooping up the skinny girl and holding her against her chest. Apparently alarmed by the lack of a little sister clinging to his leg, Gale looked up, surprised, and found Madge. Madge's view of Gale was obscured by Posy's hair, but she managed to hold his eye contact.

"This-" Gale took a step towards Madge, then stopped abruptly, looking at the ground. Eventually, he directed his gaze into hers once more. "I don't like giving you jobs, Undersee, I don't like owing you, but…"

He didn't need to finish his sentence. Madge tightened her grip around Posy, and gave him a nod. "I'll see that my father looks after her. The boys too." She noted the confusion in his features, and clarified. "I won't be around. Won't be in London. I'm…" She coughed, and closed her eyes briefly as the wind tore at her. "I'm actually joining you in North Africa soon. Nursing."

"Nursing on the frontlines?" he asked, brows raised. She wondered if it was possible that he was impressed.

"Yes," she answered as stoically as possible, "but your family will still receive everything they need, I'll make sure of it."

"Thank you," he finished, and in that moment, in his uniform with tearstains on the leg, she'd never seen him so humble.

After that, it all happened far too quickly. Gale was shepherded onto the boat, and his bizarre entourage jogged in an ungainly fashion towards the end of the dock, pushing past the crowd so as to have the best glimpse of his face as he slipped away. Posy remained latched to Madge, Rory to Vick, and Prim to Hazelle. Katniss, never one for moments of tenderness, stood off to the side, as though unsure of what to do, until Madge's eyes finally began to leak. At this, Katniss threaded her hand through Madge's as Madge began to sob, face buried in Posy's shoulder, and Madge wondered how Katniss could keep all that love inside.

* * *

 **How was the Gale/Madge interaction? I didn't want the character development on Gale's part to be too rapid, but surely you step a little out of character when you're about to be deployed... ugh, I don't know. Let me know if it sucked.**

 **On a positive note, (although technically negative from the perspective of our poor characters), things are getting serious now. The boys are off to war, the nurses are on their way in a week. And history nerds will know that the London Blitz started in September 1940...**

 **Teaser for next chapter: We go aboard** ** _The Duchess of Devonshire_** **with three of our favourite young soldiers.**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

 _Not just beautiful, though-the stars are like the trees in the forest, alive and breathing. And they're watching me._

― Haruki Murakami

* * *

17th of September, 1940

The sky was broader and more endless than Thom could have imagined, stretching boundlessly and speckled with stars brighter and more brilliant than he'd ever seen, no longer muted by the lights of London. The air was warm on his skin, the ocean quiet and calm, and he wondered how there could be people fighting and screaming and dying in a world as beautiful as this one. Gale, who'd had the idea to sneak out of their suffocating cabin and go sleep on the deck, was asleep beside him, head leaning on the wall that Thom was also slumped against, a thin blanket providing a little extra warmth. Marvel, something of a vague mutual friend, sat in an almost identical position, asleep on his other side. Their heavy breathing filled the air, but Thom wasn't uncomfortable being alone with the stars and his thoughts.

He was going off to war now. That was the real and raw truth of it. Soon he'd be fighting, and it wouldn't be anything like Tidworth. He would be fighting in a desert unlike anything he'd ever seen, and there would be men out there who wanted him dead. There were men out there who were equipped to kill him. Thom feared death; it plagued his mind, and maybe that was what kept his eyes open so late at night while his friends lay sleeping beside him. He didn't want to hurt and he didn't want to bleed and he didn't want to leave his mother or his sister or Lillian behind. Their goodbyes echoed in his ears: the departure of the ship had happened so quickly, with thousands of voices and hundreds of British flags whipping in the wind. He wished he could do it again. He wished he could hold Lillian's hand even one more time, or give his mother more comforting words than, "I'll see you when it's over."

The ship bucked over an unexpected wave, and something clattered to the deck. Thom could hear the footsteps of men as they hurried to pick it up, but they didn't stumble across the three new recruits on the starboard side. Thom exhaled in relief, and ran a hand through his hair. With his face propped up in his hands, which rested on his knees, Thom took a break from looking at the stars, and looked across the water on the other side of the ship instead. It was calm once more. He couldn't help but wonder if it was deceivingly so. Thom thought of submarines preparing to send the torpedo that would end all of their lives so easily, so carelessly.

"Thom." Marvel's voice startled Thom, and he looked down at the man partially reclined beside him, rubbing his eyes like a child awake past their bedtime. "Why are you awake?"

"I could ask the same of you," Thom responded, raising his eyebrows. "You were sleeping like a log five minutes ago."

"Something woke me up." Marvel's voice was still heavy with sleep, and he turned his gaze to the skies. "It's a nice night."

Thom made a soft noise of assent. "Nicer than London."

Marvel nodded sombrely. "Dear old London's not going to get any prettier, I don't think." He picked at a thread on his uniform. "Do you ever worry there won't be any city to come back to?"

Thom hadn't thought of that. "It's a scary thought," he confessed, and paused. "Have you got a girl, Marvel?"

Marvel did a slight double take, and Thom couldn't help but snicker to himself. His question had, after all, been quite unexpected, and quite personal as well.

"No," Marvel answered eventually. "I've only got my family to worry about." He gave Thom a knowing look. "Who are you worried about? You've got a girl, don't you?"

The look in Marvel's eyes told Thom that the question was nothing but a courtesy. "Her name's Lillian," Thom began, frowning at the sky, "and I feel the worst about leaving her behind. Out of everyone. I promised we'll get married," Thom faltered, "when I come home."

"I made promises to my sister," Marvel contributed. "That I'd come home with all of my limbs. That I'd stick to my morals. That I'd find the kindest, cleverest and best-looking man in all of the trenches, and put in a good word for her." He laughed hollowly. "I suppose you're not going to be the one to marry my sister?"

"No." Thom's voice was barely a whisper, and he cleared his throat; a sharp noise amongst the gentle cadence of the waves and of the night. "I don't think Gale's your man either. His situation's complicated. He's in love with someone who doesn't love him. A girl's in love with him who he doesn't love. Your sister would have to fight off hordes of admirers to get to him, I think."

"She's not the type for any of that nonsense." Marvel laughed again, with a little more conviction this time. "I'll have to keep looking."

There was a moment of quiet, and the boys listened to the sound of their companion breathing, to the sound of the waves, to the calm that seemed so unbreakable.

"Tell me about Lillian." Marvel surprised Thom in that gentle way with his sudden request, eyes glinting a little brighter in the darkness.

Thom frowned. "Why?"

"Because otherwise I have to think about my family, and that's somewhat painful at the moment," Marvel said curtly.

Thom nodded. It was a good reason, and one that he could understand.

"She…" Thom's voice wasn't as strong he would have liked it to be. "Well, she's a secretary and she's a policeman's daughter. She has dark hair and she likes to sing but she doesn't like to dance. She's an excellent cook and plays football with her nephews in bare feet, even when it's cold." Thom paused, and searched for something else. "I don't want to die in Africa. That wouldn't be fair to her," was all he could find.

Marvel hugged his knees to his chest and rested his head upon them, and his breaths came slow and deep. His eyes were closed, as though trying to picture the girl Thom had described. There was no way of measuring the tenuous moments between them, but Thom was fairly sure that Marvel must have fallen back into the reaches of sleep when his voice rang out, surprisingly clear.

"If God is real Thom, you'll go back to her."

Thom did not know what to say.

* * *

 **Naw, poor kids. Hope this gave you a bit of insight into two character you mightn't have seen in this light, (or, in Thom's case, who you've barely seen at all because I'm a terrible author and have neglected him.) After this, the D &M's keep going, because teaser for next chapter: Madge and Katniss discuss Gale, Peeta and war while collecting for the air force.**

 **Also, thought I'd mention that I loved hearing from three brand new reviewers last chapter! That really made me smile. You guys are all great.**

 **xx - L.**


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

 _Resilience is accepting your new reality, even if it's less good than the one you had before. You can fight it, you can do nothing but scream about what you've lost, or you can accept that and try to put together something that's good._

-Elizabeth Edwards

* * *

19th of September, 1940

"Any spare pots?" Madge asked cheerfully.

Katniss had learned to let Madge do the talking. It was her second day accompanying her on her charity work, preparing to take over in her stead once she left for Africa in mere days.

She wasn't looking forward to conducting this door-knocking herself. The morale in Britain was one of grim determination at best, and miserable in many cases. With the bombing of London occurring now seemingly in earnest, and the government spitting out pamphlets about German spies, tension was high and good sense was on the decline. Just yesterday, Katniss had witnessed a man being harshly berated for giving directions to a stranger; street signs had been removed for the purpose of confusing any potential spies. As it turned out, the stranger had arrived recently from the country, and had been looking for his ailing sister-in-law's residence.

"What do you need them for?" the old housewife asked suspiciously.

Biting her tongue, Katniss allowed Madge to carry on.

"We're melting them down to make parts for our boys in the air force." Madge's voice retained its upbeat tone despite the scowl directed at her. "They're doing awfully important work, shooting down those German bombers."

"I suppose so," the woman agreed grudgingly. "It's in everyone's best interests to keep more of them out there. They're struggling enough as it is…" She trailed off as she walked back down the hallway. "I warn you, I don't have much excess of anything these days," she called over her shoulder.

Katniss and Madge listened to the sounds of clanging as she looked through her cupboards. The woman trudged back, a moderately sized pot in her arms.

"I'll survive without this one." She attempted to smile as she handed it over to Katniss. "I hope it makes a good plane!"

Madge took the pot from Katniss' overfilled arms as they walked away from the now closed door. Katniss murmured her thanks, and there was silence as they made their way to the car where Madge's father was waiting, to collect what they could no longer carry. With the pots deposited, they moved onto the next street.

"How are you coping with everything, Katniss?" Madge asked pensively.

Katniss raised her brows. "With everything?"

Madge sighed with good humour. "I'll be more specific, then. How are you coping with Gale having left?"

Her stomach twisted. She did not know where she would find the words to tell Madge. She hadn't told anyone. She hadn't told herself. In an attempt to avoid answering, she charged up the nearest drive and knocked on the door of the house. There was no answer. Defeated, Katniss returned.

"I don't know," she said.

Madge did not seem surprised by her answer; her face softened and she laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder as she said, "That must be horrid for you."

"Not knowing?" Katniss asked. "Or Gale having left?"

"Not knowing," Madge confirmed. "Nothing drives one mad like a bit of inner turmoil."

"Of course," Katniss responded, and bit her lip. "I suppose you're right. It's not a nice feeling. I mean, I can't blame him for going, because he was conscripted. I can't miss him, because I'm spending all my time telling myself that everything's fine and he'll come home. I can't be proud, no matter how hard I try, because I just don't see what shooting up Italians in Africa has to do with defeating Germany." Katniss huffed angrily at this. "All my emotions," she summarised, wringing her hands, "they're quite messy."

"You know," Madge said pensively, after a moment, "I've never heard you say so much about how you felt. Ever."

"Wars change people, apparently," Katniss parroted a frequently thrown-about phrase with a scowl, "even those of us who aren't really involved."

Madge knocked this time. A pot was donated. Expressions of grim determination were exchanged. The nurse and the self-appointed warden continued on their way.

"Now, please don't turn furious on me here," Madge began tentatively, "as I'm quite aware that you are armed with a pot. But…" after a few moment's hesitation, Madge shrugged helplessly and decided to be blunt, "were you and Gale romantically involved?"

Katniss gritted her teeth. She supposed she liked Madge too much to hit her with the pot. Before answering, she attempted to answer herself. Had she and Gale been more than friends? She'd always thought that they might have married, somewhere further down the track. They'd always been so close. That said, they'd grown apart recently, to some extent.

Katniss opened her mouth and answered, "No."

Madge raised a brow, but did not say anything else until minutes later when her arms were heavy with the weight of a large pan. She looked at the sky as she asked, "What about Peeta Mellark?"

At this, Katniss sighed rather aggressively. "No. You know Madge, this is all awfully gossipy of you. I thought we were supposed to be discussing my emotional wellbeing."

"They're related," Madge pointed out mildly, "but I promise to leave it there."

Katniss watched Madge closely as they continued to walk. Her shoulders were so narrow. They dropped, slightly. Her face was lined with exhaustion. Katniss realised that perhaps Madge was not okay.

"On the subject of emotional wellbeing," Katniss said, frowning at Madge, "how are you?"

Madge opened her mouth, shook her head, then started again. "I'm scared to leave," she said.

Katniss did not know what to say.

"I'm scared to see the boys on the frontlines," she went on, "I'm scared to see them die. I'm scared to see them kill."

Madge's anxiety ran out in her words and gripped at Katniss as well. Katniss held her head stoically. She would bear this, for Madge.

"Do you ever wonder what might become of Gale out there?" she asked.

Her voice was so light and soft in that moment; Katniss thought it would be blown away. She watched the grey sky with eyes suddenly sore with the pain of holding back tears. She watched Madge's words blow away into the great unknown. She thought of Gale, then. She knew that Madge thought of him more.

* * *

 **Well, if Katniss is astute enough to have picked up on Gadge, it must be real. Short chapter, but I quite liked it, so I hope you did too. Happy long weekend for my Aussie readers who got one! (Is it just a Victorian thing? idk).**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Lots of family heart to hearts while the bombs hammer overhead.**

 **xx - L.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

 _All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way._

 _―_ Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

* * *

14th of October, 1940

Rory came home to fury that night. His mother was white and the muscles in her neck strained as she bellowed at him. She bellowed at him out of fear. His teenage eyes could not tell, and so, he scowled as she dragged him down the stairs to the Fuhrman cellar.

"I don't think that it's made it through your head, Rory." She lowered her voice once they were again in the company of Vick and Posy. "I really don't. You'd think, for all that time you spend walking through the rubble, that you'd realise how dangerous the times are. We've heard bombs almost every night. People are dying, Rory," she pleaded now. "You can't wander off so close to sundown."

"I didn't wander off," Rory argued, rolling his eyes. "I went looking for a paper."

At this, Hazelle laughed rather maniacally. "Yes Rory, a paper, amongst the bomb wreckage! No wonder you think you'll survive a bomb hit – you think the papers are making it out unscathed!"

Rory folded his arms. "I don't think I'll survive a bomb hit. I'm not stupid."

"Then why," Hazelle began slowly, clearly exasperated, "do you keep risking your life?"

Rory frowned. He'd long been trying to answer this question himself; he couldn't quite place it, but he had a few ideas. It was something about the loneliness of a London with the men all gone, the suffocating air of anxiety that seemed to fill his house. It was something about the awe that Primrose Everdeen cradled in sky blue eyes, when she looked at him. It was something about the boots he wore these days; they'd been his father's, before they had been Gale's. Rory was the man of the house, the next on the chopping block. He struggled to see why his mother couldn't see it too; she tried to protect him like the child he'd been, once.

"Mama," Posy whined, "I'm cold."

Hazelle turned with a sigh. "I know, sweetheart. We're all- are you not wearing a jumper, Posy Hawthorne?"

Posy nodded sombrely.

"Why on earth aren't you wearing your jumper?" Hazelle wrung her hands.

Posy began to wail.

"I think she lost it, Ma," Vick contributed without looking up from his book.

Lillian, whose nearest bomb shelter also happened to be the Fuhrman cellar, rushed over to remedy the situation. "Oh, sweetheart, it's okay, you can have my scarf and my gloves, here we go, let's put them on. Lovely. Now, if you sit tight, I'll just ask Anna whether she's got anything-"

The first bomb of the night hit, and they felt the world shake. All Lillian's good work was undone. Posy began to cry again, with new energy.

Apparently giving up on her youngest child, Hazelle turned back to Rory. "Young man, I'm sick of arguing with you. All I want is a promise that you'll not go wandering off anywhere looking for anything without telling me first, not until this war is over."

"Do I have to tell you if I'm going to the outhouse?" Rory asked sneeringly.

"Rory!" Hazelle gritted her teeth.

"Alright," he conceded, and put up his hands tiredly, "next time I'm wandering off, I'll tell you."

"And if I say you can't go?" Hazelle asked.

"Then…" Rory deliberated, "we'll see how I'm feeling."

Hazelle's face darkened. "I'm serious about this Rory. I'm not sure why you don't seem to care whether you live or die, but I sure as hell care. I've already had one son sent off to risk his life, and I'm going to look after the kids I've got left."

Rory opened his mouth to protest, "For God's sa-"

"Not another word out of you!" Hazelle hissed. "You're ungrateful and insensitive and you're risking your life and you're risking the lives of others. Perhaps you'll survive a bomb hit, my precious Rory, but Primrose Everdeen sure as hell will not."

Rory's face contorted with rage, but no words came out.

Hazelle sighed, and her features softened somewhat. "Look Rory, one day you'll understand that no matter how much you love someone, no matter how much you _want_ to protect them… it doesn't mean that you can."

Another bomb crashed above them. Rory closed his eyes, and imagined the world tearing apart. He'd explore the damage tomorrow.

* * *

"What a mess." Alexander closed his eyes as he listened to the second bomb of the night shake the city. "What a mess this is."

Next to him, his son shivered. Upon opening his eyes, Alexander saw drops of water from the ceiling making their way down Peeta's back. He stood up and tried to block the flow. All he got for his troubles was a drop of freezing water in the eye. He sat down again.

"It's a mess."

Peeta nodded miserably, and Alexander followed his son's gaze around their cellar. A small cellar, and only just deep enough to pass regulations, the Mellarks had not been called upon to share the shelter with other members of the public. He almost wished they had been. It was lonely in there. Abigail, who perhaps feared the bombs the most, counted the day's earnings with shaking hands. Katniss, in the grips of a fever and huddled underneath several blankets, slept. Prim attempted to patch a skirt by the miserable candlelight.

"Ryan would make this much more fun, don't you think?" Peeta looked up at his father, who could not help but smile with the memory of his second-youngest son.

"He would," he agreed. "He'd bring down his cards, and some lollies to gamble with, and he'd win every game we played."

"Of course, he'd share his winnings," Peeta said fondly, smiling with the surprising sweetness of the memories. "Do you think he cheats? At the cards?"

Alexander snorted. "Probably. But at least he's a good winner."

He could feel his wife's eyes on him. It was an unspoken rule in the Mellark household, with the most determined enforcer being Abigail, that they did not discuss the three men life had taken in its stride. He'd agreed with her out of unwillingness to argue, but now saw that speaking of the past, if it was approached the right way, could be therapeutic.

"I don't suppose we have the cards down here, do we?" Peeta asked.

"Not that I can see." Alexander craned his neck. "You're stuck talking to me, it would seem."

The bombs screamed overhead.

"I can imagine worse fates," Peeta said.

* * *

 **A little random, but I felt the need to visit the two families (and particularly give Rory a good bit of character development - hope you like him.) Sorry for not getting much out of my Mellark household interaction (especially for silencing Katniss with the flu), but I wasn't feeling up to the complexity of any Katniss/Peeta. Hope you can enjoy a nice father/son moment.**

 **To all my fellow students - one more week until Easter break. We can survive.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: our favourite boys are preparing for battle, where the morale is somewhat boosted with the arrival of some young, British nurses. (** **i.e., the romance begins.)**

 **xx - L.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

 _We are forlorn like children, and experienced like old men, we are crude and sorrowful and superficial—I believe we are lost._

― Erich Maria Remarque

* * *

17th of November, 1940

"There's no way you're not cheating," Gale grumbled, throwing in his cards.

"I'm telling you, I'm not." Ryan's lips quirked upwards as he took the three cigarettes that had lain in the middle of the circle. He squinted in the afternoon sun. "Anyone up for another game? I've got a watch we can play for."

"What's the point in winning your own watch?" Gale asked. "You'll win the hand, and outsmart us poor manual labourers, and be proud of yourself-"

"Jesus Gale." Thom rolled his eyes, placed a hand on Gale's shoulder. Gale moved away. Thom went on, apparently unperturbed. "You don't have to get so worked up about it. It's not a _class_ thing." Thom glanced at Ryan cheekily. "For the record, I do think you're cheating."

"I'll play for the watch," Marvel said loudly over the bickering. "If you sooks don't want to play, you're welcome not to."

"I'll play," Thom said good-naturedly, running a hand through his hair, "as long as it's _your_ watch we're playing for."

Outnumbered, Gale sighed. "Deal me in."

Ryan bit his lip, seemingly biting back a comment that would earn him another scowl. The baker's son infuriated Gale for many reasons, from his card skills to his alarmingly upbeat nature through to his uncanny resemblance to his younger brother, who most likely had Katniss Everdeen in his house at this very moment. This, he reflected, as he picked up his hand – another shit one – was not what he had expected war to be like.

Of course, this was the supposed calm before the storm. Tomorrow would mark the beginning of Operation Crusader, in which they, the British 7th Armoured Division, were to engage Rommel's _Afrika Korps_. If he weren't so bloody sick of cards and Ryan Mellark, he supposed he'd be at least somewhat scared – their advance on Tobruk sounded next to impossible, and there wasn't a place in the world he'd like to fight in less. The heat was getting to Gale already, as well as the sand in the tea and in his boots. Restless under the sun, however, Gale supposed that fighting in these conditions could not be so much worse than being with Ryan Mellark in these conditions.

"So I've heard," Marvel said, fingering a card pensively, "that there's a whole bunch of nurses arriving today. Young ones," he added, at the lack of response from the circle of men. "Young nurses from back home."

Thom rolled his eyes. "Marvel, this is not exciting because the only time we'll see the nurses is if we're horrifically injured, and I'm not so keen on that."

Gale, whose mood was – unlike Thom's – instantly lifted by Marvel's news, snorted at this. "The reason you don't think it's exciting, Thom, is because you're hopelessly devoted to a girl back home. As for us not seeing the nurses unless we're horrifically injured, I can assure you that if we want to go see a girl we will."

Thom wrinkled his nose. "I thought you were saving yourself for Katniss Everdeen."

Gale glared at his friend, ignoring Ryan's slight double-take. "Well, you wouldn't know what you're talking about, would you?"

"Apparently not," Thom said mildly. One the key factors in the success of their friendship was the fact that Thom knew when to back down. "So do you think you could pick up a nurse before Operation Crusader is underway?"

Marvel snorted. "That gives you about sixteen hours."

"I could," Gale said confidently, more alert now, "but I'm not going to. That said, scouting out couldn't hurt."

"Scouting," repeated Thom with a derisive snort. "That's terribly military of you, Gale."

"Shut up." Gale rolled his eyes, but this was with good humour. He was aware that this drastic change in character simply at the mention of women was rather ridiculous of him, but he hadn't received much good news for a while now, and decided that he'd take what he could get. "If you don't want to come, you can sit here and lose at cards."

"He can't, actually," Ryan countered, with a bit of a grin, "because I'm coming with you."

"Does that mean I can have your watch?" Thom asked hopefully as the other three stood up.

"No," Ryan said decisively, bending down to pick it up. "We'll play for it later."

"Come with," Gale called over his shoulder as they began to walk away. "It's not unfaithful to _see_ women, Thom."

"Alright." Thom stood with a scowl, drily adding, "Let's go scouting."

"That's the spirit," Gale said mildly, ignoring his best friend's sarcasm as he led the odd group back towards the main base camp.

There were signs of the upcoming operation everywhere: mechanics taking the artillery through every test imaginable, hands black with oil; terse meetings between the leaders of the infantry and air force, haggling over protection; older, worn-in soldiers with their sun-lined faces set in grim determination. But, thankfully, a little further up the path of burning sand, the arrivals were stepping off their ship. The men joined the small crowd that had formed; it seemed that it was not only they who needed some cheering up.

"Would you like a hand with your bag, Miss?" Somewhat surprisingly, Ryan was the first to step forward.

The petite brunette whose bag he had reached for smiled at him. "Thank you very much."

Ryan winked at the three others as he strode past them. Gale scowled, and stepped forward himself. Marvel did so simultaneously, and so, groaning, Thom followed along.

"Glimmer!"

Gale found himself almost trampled as Marvel caught sight of a blonde disembarking the ship, and scampered to meet her. He frowned as he searched the crowd. If there was someone out there for Marvel, not to mention someone for Ryan Mellark, there must be someone out there for him. He'd only just caught sight of a brunette he might have considered pretty when a voice called his name.

"Gale Hawthorne? I can scarcely believe it!"

He turned, boots crunching the sand, and found himself face to face with Madge Undersee, mayor's daughter and charity giver, dressed in uniform with sun honeying her hair. Any thoughts of the brunette quickly left his mind. He opened his mouth to speak, and was surprised to find nothing. Gale stood stock-still as soldiers scarpered after nurses around him, rendered completely speechless by a woman for the first time in his life.

* * *

 **Don't kill me for ending it there please. I felt that captured the atmosphere of the western desert and the war quite well - I promise, Gadge is coming. For now, I hope you enjoyed Ryan (one of my favourite characters, and essentially completely of my own creation, which is nice) and the beginning of a significant desert campaign.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Johanna trains Clove for work in the ATS, while Cato settles into the rhythm of life in Hay.**

 **xx - L.**


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

 _The scariest thing about distance is that you don't know if they'll miss you or forget you._

\- Nicholas Sparks

* * *

28th of November, 1940

"See, Churchill's not a bad Prime Minister, but he's got a few policies that drive me absolutely mad," Johanna informed Clove over her shoulder as she strode across the field. "The main one being that while you'll be working with the anti-aircraft guns, and you'll be able to track a plane, fuse the shells and witness the firing cord being pulled, you are not allowed to do the firing yourself."

Johanna gave a nod to a woman in the command position, binoculars in hand. Clove took in the scene in front of her. Guns, radios, and equipment she could only guess the function of. After weeks of peeling potatoes, and passing fitness, hearing, eyesight and nerve tests, she had finally arrived at the Liverpool air defence base.

"It's out of concern, of course," Johanna went on, snorting with derision. "Apparently us women might not be able to deal with the guilt of knowing that we've shot down a German."

"But we can deal with the guilt of knowing the prepared the shells and tracked them down as a target?" Clove asked witheringly.

Johanna shot her a sympathetic smile. "He's far from logical, Clove, but I imagine that Chamberlain would have actually signed control of the country over to Hitler if he'd asked nicely enough, so I try to be thankful for the things that we are able to do." She shrugged happily. "No one on civvie street's heard of a female electrician, and I reckon I'm the best in Liverpool now."

As she spoke, Johanna led Clove to a piece of equipment where a red-haired woman stood, peering into it.

"For now, we're going to get you as part of the IFF team," she explained briskly. "Stands for identification, friend or foe. This," she slapped the piece of equipment, startling the woman into standing up, "is an identification telescope. You and Autumn here are on it. You'll be looking out for and identifying aircraft, and your speech will be going to inbound aircraft through a radio, to keep them informed."

"I hope you've got steady nerves." Autumn's smile was reminiscent of a grimace as she shook Clove's hand. "It sounds like an easy task, but with the gunfire going like all hell's broken loose-" her voice broke off. "What am I doing, scaring you already? I'll teach you the basics first."

The afternoon unfolded slowly, but Clove enjoyed the first challenging mental task she'd had since her father left. Tinkering with the radios and the telescope reminded of the tasks her father had found for her in her boredom. She'd loved his work; she'd loved the quiet, methodical nature of it.

Of course, as Autumn had warned, it was a different task entirely when the planes arrived. The bombs screamed and whistled, and Clove struggled to detach in her mind the sound of the crashes and the thought of her loved ones. According to Autumn, the ports and city of Liverpool itself was most heavily targeted. Clove had friends in Liverpool. With this in mind, the raid seemed to last an age. When the sky was finally and blessedly empty, Clove could not help but sink to her heels, head in her hands as she allowed herself to understand what she had just been a part of.

"Oh hell," Johanna was muttering, from her position operating the fax machine. "Autumn, look at this."

Clove lifted her head at this; she watched Autumn stride across the field, and watched her face fall as she read the message.

"What is it?" Clove was not the only ATS member walking towards the machine now. There was a painful curiosity, a desperation, about them.

"They hit a shelter in Durning Road." Johanna shook her head sadly. "Three storeys collapsed down on that basement. Boilers burst. Fires. 166 dead." She rubbed a hand over her tired face. "I'm sick of this. I want to go up there and shoot them myself."

* * *

 _Dear Clove,_

 _I will begin this letter with an insightful remark made by my friend Albert today, which was:_

 _"_ _This is the last time I'm going exploring in this God-forsaken country. Why is everything here poisonous?"_

 _This quote summarises today's events rather well. Albert, despite having received a shocking bite from a spider only a few days ago, decided that we – that is, he, Thomas, Benedikt (the one who's really good at football), Lorenzo (the Italian POW), and I – should go exploring through the bush on the eastern side of the camp. Not having much else to do, we agreed. The Australian bush is simultaneously ugly and beautiful in a way I'm not sure that I can describe. The plants are all scrawny and prickly, with the exception of the gums, which are huge trees with smooth grey trunks and silvery leaves. They're beautiful, if you forget how odd they are. This isn't to say I wouldn't give an arm and a leg to have a nice English oak to sit under. I think about the one in your back yard, sometimes._

 _But I'm becoming distracted from my story._

 _We had probably been walking for ten minutes when Thomas yelped and jumped backwards, almost knocking Benedikt over. He had almost stepped on a snake. It was enormous; it must have been eight feet long and perfectly coloured so as to camouflage in its environment. It had reared up into a striking position, and I swore that it looked at me. My mind was telling me: run like hell, you can outrun someone, just go, but instead, we froze until it eventually slivered away. No one would take so much as a step further from camp after that. It was the scariest encounter I've had in my life._

 _Thomas, despite initially describing it as 'straight out of hell', has now become fascinated with the thing; we've established an unofficial university in the camp, and he was there researching it all afternoon. He thinks that it was a king brown snake, and thanked God several times that he was not bitten (something to do with myotoxins, apparently). A guard I spoke to about our ordeal says they're hardly dangerous at all compared to the other snakes you find around here, which was not at all comforting._

 _On a lighter note, your father's over the moon because some poor musician he likes who also got deported is performing tonight; he somehow managed to keep his instruments safe from the soldiers during our voyage. Hay is almost like a little city now. We have concerts, a university, and our own currency. All the university men are trying to work out some sort of government with equal representation for the Jews, liberals, social democrats, communists, and everything else we've got. I'm not entirely certain it will work, but it's given them something to think about. We've also developed a football team, despite the heated debate surrounding which team we would name ourselves after. For the record, the Italians – despite being seriously outnumbered – somehow won out; we are now Juventus, the team from Torino, although our clumsily sewn jumpers look nothing like theirs. We're having a match against some of the guards tomorrow. I'll be playing striker._

 _It's like a small, backwards city here, on the other side of the world. Really, the only thing missing from this funny little community is our mothers, the twins, and you._

 _Write back soon,_

 _Cato._

* * *

 **Sorry for disappearing on you all! I'm on Easter holidays on the moment, and I've kind of just spent the past week catching up on a colossal sleep debt and working (ugh.) Thank you for all the lovely reviews that reminded me that this story existed :)**

 **Hope you enjoyed Clove tracking planes but not shooting them (that was a legitimate rule) and Cato and his king brown snake scare. I think that the community in Hay is one of the most interesting aspects of this story - history nerds, look it up. All the stuff about the currency, university, government and even the soccer team named after Juventus really happened.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: a special Christmas chapter, with a short piece covering a moment for each character on the 25** **th** **of December. (Yes, I know it's April, but I wrote this last Christmas ahahaha).**

 **xx - L.**


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

 _Christmas is a season not only of joy but of reflection._

– Winston Churchill

* * *

24th and 25th of December, 1940

She was staying with Johanna now; there was a lot to do in Liverpool, and the opportunity to leave London had felt so exciting. She watched clock tick past midnight. It was Christmas now. This would be the first Christmas she had spent without her parents. She thought of them, as she lay on her bed. Her mother in London. Her father in Australia. She thought then of Cato, playing striker against guards wearing a hand-sewn Juventus guernsey. It was summer there. The times were different, too. Perhaps it was not yet Christmas in the New World. Perhaps Christmas had come and gone. She realised then what a fragile construct it all was.

Clove lifted the heavy, black curtain an inch or so, and looked out at the night sky. As a child, she'd always loved to see the stars on Christmas Eve, and imagine the shepherds, the wise men, all following it. She'd always tried to spot the star herself.

Tonight, she'd prayed for stormy weather. A gusty wind and poor visibility protected Britain better than any anti-aircraft guns. As it stood, the weather was somewhere in between, but fortunately, it seemed the Germans too wanted a night off. Silence graced the city of Liverpool. Clove let the curtain drop, and tried to sleep.

* * *

Madge did not get a night off for Christmas Eve. She could not have expected to. The attacks were sporadic now, with the Germans and Italians seeming to have conceded that now was a good of a time for a break as any, but the sick were not healed by any Christmas miracles. Derrick Wyatt vomited up his only Christmas gift, an extra meat ration provided by the army. Jacob Creswell, who was only twenty-one, died. She was beginning to wonder whether Christmas miracles existed at all.

Her shift ended at midnight. Back in London, she'd be going to church now; the midnight service had always been her favourite. Tonight, she stepped from the hospital tent and looked out over the desert. Silent night, holy night. The stars were brilliant. Madge did not go to bed for some time.

* * *

On Christmas Eve, Ryan dreamed of Christmas pudding, frosted cookies, and despite it all, his mother.

* * *

It was Christmas Eve in the subway tunnel. Prayers and carols and gift-giving was observed as usual by the Londoners who'd chosen to remain in their underground safety, with their homes too far away to survive a surprise attack.

The Hawthorne boys were not dragged to church this year, but they managed to embarrass their mother all the same. Picture: Vick with a cricket bat, Rory with an outswinger, and a man standing unknowingly in third slip. A thick edge. A cry of, "Catch'im!" from Rory, a wail of pain from the man. Hazelle couldn't help but smile, even as she opened her mouth to bellow reprimands she knew her sons would not take to heart. After all, what was a Hawthorne Christmas without a disaster?

* * *

Haymitch, an empty bottle beside his bed, slept a dreamless sleep. It had been twenty years, but Christmas still hurt.

* * *

There was no gambling on Christmas, according to Marvel. Gale wondered vaguely whether his lanky acquaintance had made that rule up, and found, upon searching through his sandy mind, that his recollection of Christian practices was unnervingly blurred. He had been away for mere months, but it seemed an age.

There was apparently no gambling on Christmas, so, the five of them – Gale, Marvel, Ryan, Thom and their lance corporal Finnick Odair – sat together as they wrote letters home. Finnick gave them their extra meat rations with an affrontingly glowing smile. The puppy Finnick fondly referred to as his mascot – they'd found it only yesterday upon their victory in Benghazi – chewed at the straps of Marvel's pack. Gale chewed on the tough strips of dried beef as he struggled to write. He wanted to write to Katniss. He could not think of the words. Katniss seemed worlds away, and while he loved the memory of her still, it was hard for him to remember the subtler details of her face.

He looked up, only to see Madge walk past with another nurse. Their blonde heads were set ablaze by the magnificence of the African sun. Gale did not think this was particularly fair to Katniss, the memory of whom glowed dimly somewhere in the banished corners of his mind.

* * *

"I miss the snow," Glimmer said wistfully. "It's not really Christmas without snow."

Marvel rolled his eyes. "There's a lot of tragedy about this Christmas, but I don't think the snow is one of them."

Glimmer scowled. "Well of course it isn't, but it's much easier to think of it that way, isn't it?" Her voice was a nurse's voice then, brittle and harsh and unforgiving.

"I'm sorry Glim." Marvel sat down next to her, in the sand, and looked up. The moon was full, the stars spectacular. "You know," he added, smile creeping onto his face, "we could always make a snowman out of sand."

As it turned out, they could not. The sand was too dry and too fine. Watching Glimmer shake with laughter as he dressed a pile of sand in his jacket and cap, Marvel struggled to care.

* * *

"Merry Christmas." Cato grinned as he presented his brother with his gift.

Thomas' eyes widened. "Cato, what did you _do_?"

"I didn't kill the thing," Cato said, laughing. "I think it must have shed its skin, or something. I found it yesterday."

Apparently in awe of the snakeskin that was now in his hands, Thomas did not say another word for perhaps five minutes. When he did speak, he looked at Cato with a fiery grin.

"You know what we could do with this?" he asked.

Cato frowned in confusion.

"Allow me to rephrase," Thomas said, and cleared his throat. "What would the twins do with this?"

As the realisation came to him, a broad grin worked its way onto Cato's face.

"I think Benedikt was the most scared, don't you?" Cato asked, and the brothers rushed off to find Benedikt's suitcase to hide the skin in, briefly and heartbreakingly children once more.

* * *

It was far from the perfect Christmas lunch. The usual turkey had been replaced by a rabbit, which Peeta was under strict instructions from Katniss not the inquire about, a sponge replaced a pudding, two girls took the place of three boys, and the house was almost entirely devoid of Christmas decorations, which were working to maintain some façade of normality in the shopfront.

That is, it was far from the perfect Christmas until Primrose Everdeen called the bizarre blend of people she referred to now as her family into the living room. She'd hauled every one of those decorations, tree included, up the stairs from the bakery to the house and arranged them perfectly around the chimney. Peeta smiled more broadly than he had in months. Even Abigail held her tongue as her eyes traced the messy track of pine needles Prim had left behind.

* * *

All that Finnick wanted for Christmas was a letter. He received instead some extra meat rations, a pair of socks knitted by a bored hospitalised soldier, and a cigarette from Ryan Mellark. His child would be born soon. He daydreamed wistfully, childishly, as his pencil scratched at the paper. He thought of Annie, and of a baby in a manger.

* * *

 **Happy Christmas in April! I know it's weird timing, but it was Christmas when I wrote it and I liked the chapter so much I refused to scrap it or put it off. I hope you guys like the style of it - I've got a similar one written for a New Year's Eve coming into 1943 (that's not as far away as it sounds - I do some time skipping ahaha). If you don't like it, let me know and I'll see what I can do about that piece :) Also, thanks a bunch or helping us hit the 50 review mark! You guys are great.**

 **As I touched on pretty much all of the characters here (sorry Annie) I'm really interested in hearing whose you liked most. Personally, the Hawthorne boys playing cricket in a bomb shelter makes me smile, but that might just be because it's a reflection on my own family.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: one of the heaviest attacks of the Blitz hits London, with devastating effects. (It's getting serious now...)**

 **xx - L.**


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

 _Like almost every truly horrible thing that has ever happened in the history of our world, the end also began with a kiss._

-Dennis Sharpe

* * *

29th of December, 1940

The raid had come from nowhere. Katniss and Peeta had not seen Prim or Mr and Mrs Mellark since breakfast that morning; they'd spent the past hours with Haymitch, trying to find accommodation for the Haverford family, whose house currently resembled a meteor crash site. They'd walked back to Haymitch's after some rare success – he'd grudgingly promised them a meal – when the news of a raid came in. Haymitch had rung the local alarm. They'd bundled people into houses. They'd yelled and pointed and then simply stared in helplessness as their eyes filled with fire. Incendiary bombs. They watched the most beautiful, oldest part of London go down in flames. Katniss had been mesmerised by the sight of it, until Haymitch grabbed her firmly by the shoulders and dragged her into his cellar.

"Jesus Christ!" Haymitch swore, chest heaving. "What in damned hell do they think they're doing?"

Peeta shook his head, wordless. Katniss chewed her lip.

"Do you think everyone got into the cellar safely?" Katniss asked Peeta, her voice small.

"They should have." Peter swallowed hard, and continued, "I mean, they were home. I think."

"They were home," Katniss assured him. "They must have been." The words did nothing to ease the tightening of her chest. Every serious raid before this, she'd been with Prim.

"You two look so scared I might just offer you a sip," Haymitch said thoughtfully, and inclined the bottle towards them. "It's good for forgetting."

Katniss took the bottle warily, and sniffed at it. The fumes burned her eyes. "What do you need to forget, Haymitch?" she asked.

Much to her surprise, Haymitch snorted with mirth at this invasive question. "What do I need to forget?" he asked, then rolled his eyes. "What's worth remembering would be a better question."

Peeta too, sniffed the bottle, and placed it at his feet. Two pairs of eyes looked expectantly at Haymitch Abernathy.

"There's the whole Great War thing, if you dumb kids have forgotten," he grumbled, instantly back to his usual, antagonistic self. "People die in the most stupid ways," he went on vaguely. "I had a mate in the war, died from the infection caused by a scratch he gave himself opening a tin of food. Another idiot," he spat the words with venom, "went and got himself executed for cowardice, because he chose to be strategic instead of running blindly into a hail of bullets. And I survived," Haymitch concluded bitterly. "Apparently, I'm too stupid to even die."

Peter nodded thoughtfully, before asking cautiously, "You don't have a family, do you, Haymitch?"

"Had one." Haymitch grimaced, and elaborated, "Ma and brother both died from that Spanish Influenza, right after I got home. I must have been too filthy for even that rotten disease to want to be in me. Didn't get so much as a head cold."

"I'm sorry," Peeta told him.

"Don't be," Haymitch waved a hand dismissively as he delivered his blunt response. He looked at Peeta with sunken eyes. "That's not why I'm like this, you know," he added accusingly.

"I wasn't trying to find out," Peeta responded mildly.

"Bullshit," Haymitch snorted, and took a swig of the bottle.

"Why are you?" Katniss asked, filled with a bizarre recklessness. She swallowed painfully as she came to realise the weight of her question. She clarified lamely, "Like this?"

"I like the taste of it," Haymitch snarled, not bothering to pretend sincerity.

"I'm sure you do," Katniss shrugged, and averted her gaze to the floor.

The earth shuddered overhead. Katniss closed her eyes, and saw flames, glowing grotesquely in the fading light. She jumped in surprise when Haymitch's voice brought her back to the cellar.

"Asides from the taste," he drawled, "I might have killed my fiancé."

Peeta's jaw dropped. Katniss was surprised to find herself nonchalant.

"Might have?" she asked shrewdly.

"We'll never know, will we?" Haymitch shrugged. "Punch up at a bar, me and that horrendous Cory Snow. Drunk as anything. She tried to intervene. One of us must have hit her, because she just fell…" Haymitch's voice seemed distant now. "One hit to the head was all it took, apparently."

Katniss raised her brows suddenly. "Madge's aunty," she said in realisation.

Haymitch frowned.

"Madge Undersee? Her mother's always in bed, there's something wrong with her. She gets these headaches, migraines. Madge told me once it was because her sister died. Punch to the head, in a bar."

Haymitch swallowed his next gulp of alcohol with a particularly twisted grimace. "Madge," he said eventually, screwing up his face in concentration. "Oh, yes, Mary Undersee. Married the mayor. Used to be Mary Donner, once upon a time."

"Stop, you two," Peeta mumbled eventually, unexpectedly, as Katniss opened her mouth to inquire further details. "This is stupid, dragging up all these old memories."

Katniss turned her gaze to the boy who sat beside her. His blonde hair was dimmed by the light of the cellar, but somehow, his blue eyes seemed to retain their spark. He was beautiful, Katniss realised, somewhere, dimly. She choked the thought back. Her hand, which had been so close to reaching out of him, reverted to its place in her lap.

"I'm sorry," Peter went on, under Haymitch's reproachful glare, "I know I brought it up and all. It's just…" he heaved his broad shoulders into a shrug, "sad."

Upon hearing this, words that pulled and tore at her heart, Katniss gave Peeta Mellark her hand without a second thought. He gripped it tightly. It was calloused and surprisingly warm. Katniss struggled to believe a single action could make her feel so safe. They moved closer, almost imperceptibly. The heat that destroyed the world above seemed to flood through their points of contact; hand, shoulder, hip, leg. Lips. Katniss had kissed him, the boy she'd pretended to hate for so long she'd almost fallen for her own trick. She was stunned by her own daring, but the sadness he left on her lips dampened her triumph. Hand, shoulder, hip, leg. Katniss closed her eyes, and could almost imagine they were in their own, separate world, until-

The bomb must have landed directly overhead; the roar was so immense and the shudder of the earth so drastic, it could not have been anything else. Above them, Haymitch's house was surely burning. Katniss struggled to believe that they were still alive. Dust had fallen upon their heads, but the roof held, and they continued to breathe.

"We won't be getting out until someone clears it for us," Haymitch said, and Katniss could not believe that his voice did not tremor. "They'll be a lot of burning wreckage overhead. I'm not risking opening that door only to have debris come crush us." He took a deep and heaving breath. "It'll be a long wait."

This time, when Haymitch passed Peter the bottle, he drank.

* * *

 **Sorry for disappearing on you all! I went away in the last week of the holidays then had to deal with adjusting back to school life which basically entailed me forgetting everything I was supposed to do with my spare time.**

 **Hope you liked the chapter (is like the right word for a chapter like this?), and my awkward adaptation of Haymitch's backstory... (does it seem plausible to you? I don't know.)**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Peeta, Haymitch and Katniss are rescued from the cellar, and emerge to find themselves in a very different world.**

 **xx - L.**


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

 _A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic._

-Joseph Stalin

* * *

31st of December, 1940

The light of the day overwhelmed Peeta's vision. He stumbled out of the cellar blindly, dragged by strong arms, feet tripping over one another. The owners of the arms, sinewy men too old for the armed forces who seemed ghostlike through Peeta's watering eyes, sat him down on the ground as they turned their attention to the other two. Peeta dropped his head between his legs, and closed his eyes. He would adjust to the light soon. He did not want his vision to return to him.

Katniss sat beside him. He sensed her presence only due to her sleeve brushing against his. She moved silently, and sat in silence. Peeta wondered if she had been foolish enough to open her eyes and survey the damage. She began to shake, silently, with sobs.

Peeta's face was between his legs and Katniss's buried in her hands, but Haymitch came back into the world with his eyes wide open. Peeta could hear him thanking the men gruffly.

"You know, in that bloody cellar, I lost track of the date."

"It's the 31st, Sir. Raid ended yesterday. We've worked the last thirty-six hours straight, almost. Lots of people trapped in cellars. Lots of wreckage to clear away."

"Are you continuing south now?"

"Yes Sir, south down Sydney Street."

"The kids have family down Sydney Street. Any chance of us accompanying you?"

"The place received a hell of a bashing. Are you sure they'll want to see it?"

At this, Katniss stood up. "Yes, we'll see it." Her voice rang loud and clear, without so much as a tremor. Peeta looked up then. Katniss was beautiful, amongst the wreckage and the light of a broken day. She was strong. She turned her gaze to him. "Come on Peeta, we have to see it, we have to know." Peeta shook his head numbly, and Katniss grabbed his hand, and hauled him to his feet. "Peeta, we have to know," she begged.

And so, Peeta let Katniss lead him by the hand as they returned to his home, all of which remained was a chimney.

* * *

They stood, silently, in shock. Haymitch could only shake his head, because this, with Katniss Everdeen's arm around his shoulders and face buried in his neck, was the moment that Peeta Mellark had so clearly been waiting for, and it came on the worst day of his life. Averting his gaze from the painful sight, Haymitch watched the men work amongst the wreckage. The roof of the cellar had been blown. Burning debris had crumbled into a pit in the earth. Now, men searched for bodies.

"I've got one," the tallest declared grimly. "Adult. Male."

If Peeta heard the news of the discovery of his father's corpse, he did not show it. Haymitch supposed that his face could go no whiter, that his gaze could become no blanker. The kid needed a drink, and Haymitch didn't have the heart to give it to him.

"Female," grunted a man with thick, woolly hair, as he hauled the body from amongst the wreckage. "This one's an adult too."

Smoke dispersed through an ash grey sky, a lone cat strolled the street, and Peeta Mellark was orphaned. The men kept looking. They searched and they searched for the third body they had been informed resided in that house, but they did not find anything.

"There's no child in here," one informed his shell-shocked crowd eventually, stepping from the remains of the cellar and wiping his hands on his trousers. "Two bodies, that's all."

"What?" Katniss asked in a shaking voice, finally lifting her head.

"No child in here," the man repeated. "There were only two people in the cellar during the raid. Two adults."

"My parents," Peeta mumbled, apparently to no one.

"So my sister…" Katniss began. She and the boy who stood beside her were suddenly worlds apart.

"Wasn't in here," the man finished.

Katniss looked then to Haymitch. "She must have been with Rory Hawthorne."

Haymitch could not stop her. Katniss ran, fuelled by the tiniest flicker of hope, towards the Hawthorne house. Haymitch had no desire to keep up. Instead, he turned to poor, broken, abandoned Peeta Mellark, and hugged him tighter than he'd ever hugged anyone.

* * *

Katniss never made it to the Hawthornes'. She was stopped on Gloucester Road – a graveyard, it looked like, with chimneys standing like tombstones – by the sound of crying. No, not crying. It was a wail, an anguished and pitiful wail that Katniss felt she somehow knew. She stumbled through the wreckage, skirt tearing on jagged bricks and rolling her ankle on loose rubble. Still, she limped forward.

Rory Hawthorne, who Katniss had never heard so much as whimper, wailed at the sky. His body was crumpled over; he was on his knees, hands clasped as though praying, and he was broken. Katniss knew, somewhere chillingly, in her gut, whose body he knelt over. Suddenly, she could not seem to get air into her lungs anymore. Rory stopped wailing, dropped his head, and began to cry, tears falling onto blonde hair. Despite the silent scream that consumed her mind, despite it all, Katniss walked onwards.

Rory saw her, and he broke again. Katniss had never seen him look so small.

"Katniss I'm sorry, I'm sorry, this is my fault I'm so sorry, it's just, she wanted to help. You know how she liked to help people, she wanted to find injured people and treat them, I think that was it, so we went out to find someone to save and it was like an _adventure_ Katniss, it was, but then there was a bomb that hadn't gone off and then it went off and-"

"Rory," Katniss croaked, as she too, dropped to her knees, but she did not have any consolation to give the boy who might have been her younger brother.

"We were safe," he whimpered, "in the tunnel. We were safe, we survived, it was such a miracle and now-"

If Rory kept babbling, Katniss simply lost the ability to hear him, because all she could hear as she looked into her little sister's bloody face was a ringing noise that made her dizzy. She was dimly aware that she should tell Rory it was not his fault. It may well have been; Prim had loved a bomb-torn landscape for Rory and no one else. Katniss ignored the boy beside her as she held her sister's face, and placed her forehead on Prim's. It was cold and coated in dust. Katniss stayed there for a very long time.

* * *

 **First thing's first: I'm definitely not a fan of Joseph Stalin, just thought that quote was an interesting way of looking at the chapter. Ok, moving on...**

 **Please don't kill me. I miss Prim too! (And also Mr Mellark... did anyone else get oddly attached to him as a peripheral character?) I can't exactly say I hope you enjoyed the chapter, but I hope you found it powerful. If you've got thirty seconds on your hands, please let me know how I'm doing - you guys have been pretty quiet recently. Have I depressed you all too much?**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Johanna has her hands full with Annie and the absence of Finnick Odair, while over in Africa, the British 7** **th** **Armoured Division and the Australian 6** **th** **Division attack the Italians at Beda Fomm.**

 **xx - L.**


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

 _There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds._

 _-Laurell K Hamilton_

* * *

18th of February, 1941

"I'm not ready, please don't make me, please Johanna, I can't do it, we have to wait!" Annie babbled hysterically.

"We can't wait, Annie," Johanna maintained as she bustled Annie into the ambulance. Technically, it was illegal for her to drive it off-duty, but it was the only motor vehicle she had access to, and she wasn't about to wait for a taxi.

"But Finnick-"

"Come on now Annie, keep your head," Johanna soothed. "We talked about this. You knew you'd probably have the baby before Finnick came back. It's okay. You can do this without him."

"I can't!" Annie sobbed.

Johanna took a deep breath, and began driving. The ambulance driving was a new job; her brother Dirk had enlisted, the job had been vacant, and with seemingly all of London's men off on the frontlines, Johanna had been accepted. Ambulance driving, plumbing, anti-aircraft defence. Johanna filled her days with tasks to be done, because Annie wasn't the only one who had a lot to forget. The Great War hadn't been kind to Britain children, and it didn't seem that she was any more impervious to war now, in her adulthood. Johanna kept busy to distract from the fact that she'd already lost two brothers and another was set to follow, to distract from the memory of a childhood blighted by the Great War and a shot-down French pilot who was sheltered in their house and came into her bed. (Her mother still called her a liar to this day.) She and Annie, she supposed, were not so different. She simply had better ways of coping.

"Take me home!" Annie wailed, breaking her reverie. "I don't want them to see me like this, I don't want strangers touching me. Please, Johanna. I'll do everything you say, just take me home."

"I can't-" Johanna's mouth was suddenly dry. She pulled over. "Annie, I can't deliver a child."

"I'm a nurse," Annie persisted, "I know what you need, I can tell you how to set up, then all you have to do is clamp the cord."

"Annie-"

"Please," she begged.

Johanna was not sure why she gave in, but she did, pulling back into the stream of traffic and turning around. "You could have told me this before we got into the ambulance," she mumbled.

"I'm sorry." Annie was no longer hysterical, but the tears continued to flow and her voice shook. "I'm just so scared."

Johanna nodded. "I know." She faltered. "I'll do the best I can." This seemed all that anyone was able to do, these days. Johanna hoped it would be enough.

* * *

Thom was living in a nightmare. The rumbles of the artillery and the chatter of the guns hammered inside his skull. The fire burned his eyes. They were supposed to be capturing the Italians before they fled. He just wanted to let them go. Let them leave this desert of blood and disease, so that perhaps a few less would be dead come morning. Thom had long held faith in a change of character, the development of this soldier mentality, but it had not come. And so, his hands shook on his gun as he followed Gale through the chaos that their artillery had brought about.

"Look at this." Gale's voice was heavy with disgust, but it was a disgust separate of that which Thom felt. Gale looked with scorn upon their enemy, but Thom saw only victims. He was himself a victim, although he could not yet determine what of. Gale's eyes followed a string of men Finnick and Marvel marched back towards their base, guns to their backs. "Pitiful effort, really."

Thom could not respond. His eyes were caught on a tank, perhaps fifty metres ahead of him. It was an Italian tank, and it was ablaze. Thom wondered dimly whether he had been the one to hit it. He may well have. Above the roar of the fire, he could hear the cries of men. They broke him.

"Gale," he managed in a husky voice, "there's still men in there."

Gale frowned in the direction of the tank, then began to approach it, signalling for Thom to follow him. He did so, numbly. An arm protruded from the top of the tank as a burning man began to claw his way out. Without hesitation, without a flicker of emotion on his stony face, Gale fired.

The shot made Thom's ears hurt, even after all this time. He looked at Gale Hawthorne, his best friend. He could not see that boy anymore. In the stubborn set of his jaw and tight grimace of his mouth, there was no trace of Gale's characteristic grin. He could not imagine this man breaking into song after downing a drink, or running down the laneways of London after hitting a cricket ball through a window. This man was not fit to hold Posy Hawthorne in his big arms; they carried a gun now. Gale Hawthorne fired another warning shot, and watched on grimly as men in a tank burned to death.

"Gale," Thom said weakly. "Gale, why are you-"

"This is war, Thom," Gale said tiredly, and he did not take his eyes off the burning tank. "You can't let them get out and give them a chance at wounding us. And this about this," he added, with a chillingly nonchalant shrug, "we've got a lot less prisoners to look after."

* * *

"I just wanted," Annie choked out, "to wait for Finnick."

Johanna, sitting next to Annie on a blanket on the floor of her house, gave her a squeeze with the arm curled protectively around her shoulders. It was this arm, this act of friendship, this physical reminder of her own existence, that kept her from sinking into a hysteria beyond the grips of reality.

"I know," Johanna said.

Annie looked at the baby she had clutched to her chest. Her son suckled healthily, but she could not feel the joy that was supposed to overwhelm her.

"I'm so tired," Annie went on, shaking her head as though in disbelief, "and I've been so scared for this. Now…" she shrugged helplessly, and told Johanna the words that stabbed at the inside of her skull, "I don't feel close to him."

"You don't always feel the way you're supposed to," Johanna told her, and gave her shoulder a rub, then changed the subject. "Have you thought of a name?"

"Noah," Annie answered absently.

"I like it."

"Thank you."

Silence, under the crushing expectations of motherhood.

"He looks like Finnick," Annie mumbled eventually, "but that doesn't make me feel better, it only makes me miss him more." She allowed another secret to tumble loose. "I don't know how I'll be able to look at him, all day, every day." She swallowed painfully. "That makes me a bad mother, doesn't it?"

Johanna shook her head. "I think you're sick, Annie," she said gently. "They're talking about it a little more, these days. People can get sick in their minds, just like in their bodies. I think you're a bit sick at the moment, but it doesn't mean you can't get better."

"I'm-" Annie struggled for words. Johanna was right; people were talking more about mental illness than ever before. She'd heard doctors speaking at work. This did not reassure her. She did not want to be called insane. She knew the treatments that the insane were subject to. "I don't want to be sick, Johanna."

"You mightn't be. I don't know, really," Johanna assured her. "I'm no doctor. I'm not going to send you away, or anything like that." She gifted her a gentle smile then. "I think we might work on making each other feel better." Ambulance driving, plumbing, anti-aircraft defence. Memories that wouldn't go away. "I'm a bit under the weather too."

* * *

"What's wrong with him?" It was an Australian voice, somewhere above him.

"Not sure." This was Gale's. "We were making sure no one escaped the tank. He didn't think it was a good idea. He started breathing really fast, and I got him to sit down, and now…"

"I can't believe we have to deal with crap like this," another Australian said. "We've all seen something horrible. What did he expect?"

"That's not fair, Jack."

"Can he hear us?" another asked.

Gale again, voice void of emotion. "Doesn't look like it."

Thom could hear them, he simply could not respond. He seemed to be separate of his body, watching it shudder and sweat and gasp. Even the burning in his tightening chest that had him yearning for air so desperately seemed vaguely distant. He wondered briefly whether the world around him could possibly be real.

"Get him some water, I reckon," the more sympathetic Australian chipped in.

"Can you believe the POWs are watching this? It's bloody embarrassing." This was Jack again.

"You're right." Gale's voice sounded like betrayal. "We'd best get him out of here."

The soldiers quieten as footsteps crunched across the sand. "What's going on here?" Finnick's voice was brisk as he approached.

"It's Thom," Gale told him hurriedly. "He's having some kind of… attack."

"All he saw was a tank-"

"Those bloody Italians are looking. He's making us look weak-"

"Stop talking," Finnick admonished the Australians harshly. "He's sick, alright? This is one of my boys, and he's sick. You can leave if you're not going to help."

"Yes'sir," the Australians chorused.

"Private Hawthorne." Finnick's voice was still terse. "Help me get him up. We're taking him to the hospital."

Thom felt himself lifted to his feet. The shaking, burning, screaming desert around him still did not seem real. One arm was slung over Gale's broad shoulders, the other around Finnick's. Faced with fire and death seemingly worlds away, all Thom could do was gasp for air as his toes dragged along the sand.

* * *

 **I don't know which image breaks my heart more. There was so much emotional trauma during this time to civilians and to soldiers, and I hope I've at least somewhat captured it. Poor Annie. Poor Johanna. Poor Thom. Apologies for two thoroughly depressing chapters in a row. In terms of my actual writing, how did you like the structure of this piece? I've done a few chapters divided the way this one is - that is, flicking back in and out of certain perspectives - but if it's no good, let me know now because they're pretty easy to change.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Katniss and Peeta move in with Mayor Undersee. A Sunday morning routine develops well outside of church. Ryan writes back.**

 **xx - L.**


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

 _Rest, for your eyes are weary, girl - you have driven the worst away -_

 _The ghost of the man that I might have been is gone from my heart to-day;_

 _We'll live for life and the best it brings till our twilight shadows fall;_

 _My heart grows brave, and the world, my girl, is a good world after all._

-Henry Lawson

* * *

17th of May, 1941

 _Dear Peeta,_

 _There is not very much that I can say. Your news has broken me. I am sharply aware that you must be feeling this much more acutely than I. I, at least, have distractions; death is marching onto our doorstep in the form of a long and arduous siege. There is much to be done, and I suppose it's a rather excellent tussle from a statistical point of view. They're talking about another advance. I have stopped caring, but at least it takes up some space in my mind so that grieving must be sparing and controlled. It goes without saying that no one has time to be sympathetic out here._

 _I have prayed for you morning and night. You must feel immensely lonely. Remember that you have your brothers, and you have your God. I have not heard much from Billy, but have recently received a letter from Matthew, who is in Greece. He is safe and absurdly cheerful; supposedly, the local girls are quite attractive. I trust that you have found lodging by now. It pains me to think that such weight has been cast onto your own shoulders. This may be the condescension of an older brother, but I feel it is too soon for you to grow up. Of course, I suppose your childhood was taken from you long before Sydney Street received its hammering. You've coped with a lot Peeta, and I will never forget it._

 _We will come back to you. Every moment I spend away pains me. I recall our childhood, when you were left behind as we went away to school. I still consider you my baby brother, in many ways. I am sorry that age has prevented Billy, Matthew and I from holding you as close as you deserve._

 _All of my love,_

 _Ryan._

* * *

The two orphans had moved into the Undersee household three months ago, now. They'd been kept in the hospital for weeks after the bombing; they'd allowed nurses to practise dressings and procedures on them while the state decided what to do with the two orphans too old for an orphanage. Katniss had been surprised they weren't cast onto the streets, but supposed that skinny and shaken as they were, they looked both sick enough and young enough to warrant their stay. They were saved by the generosity of Neville Undersee, who came into the hospital to visit a nephew and returned home with Katniss and Peeta in tow. Katniss was becoming better at accepting charity these days. The mayor's protestations that he had a big house and no one to fill it with stood up unusually well in the face of Katniss' lacking selflessness. She wanted a bed. She wanted to escape the nurses. She wanted to forget. And so, she slept in Madge Undersee's bed, and ran her fingers over the ivory of her piano. She woke often with tears on her face and the name of her sister on her lips. Peeta held her, on nights like that. He assured her that he had nightmares too. That made her stomach clench with guilt. She never offered him her comfort. She wondered whether she was selfish, or simply blind. The memory of her feet slapping on Sydney Street as she ran away from a newly orphaned Peeta Mellark burning in her mind, she bitterly accepted the former.

During the day, Peeta taught lessons to evacuated children outside of town, who were bundled together into the mansion of a widow with family and staff lost to war. The war produced homeless children nearly as quickly as it ripped houses of its inhabitants, Katniss observed, as she rode the bus with him away from the crumbling streets of London. She did not help with the lessons; she was never patient enough, and her schooling was somewhat lacking herself. Instead, she lent a hand to the sole gardener who remained on the property. She set snares for the rabbits. She had no need to bring them home any longer, but she supposed that old habits died hard, and so, she whispered to herself in borrowed phrases as she set the traps, and she donated her prizes to the children's shelter. The gardener was, as it stood, quite impressed with her snares. When he asked her who taught her, she could not answer him. Gale did not write.

Neville Undersee was a mystifying character; he was jovial in the face of pain, but was riddled with cracks that Katniss glimpsed at odd moments, such as the simple act of cleaning up after dinner, when his hands began to shake and a plate crashed to the floor. His wife was more so. She stayed in her bedroom, blinds drawn, for the vast majority of the day. Katniss saw her surface sporadically only to wander the corridor; occasionally should would pick up some item from the bedroom she did not seem to realise was occupied by Katniss now, and leave with the vague promise of mending it. She never saw her, but Katniss was sure it was Mary Undersee's footsteps that whispered along the hall at night. It was a sad house, the Undersee house. No one played the piano. There were no visits from family relatives, either. Katniss allowed herself to wonder at the thought of a blonde aunty arriving for Sunday lunch, dark-haired husband gripping her hand. She thought of what Haymitch had said. _People die in the most stupid ways._ She thought of her little sister, and of an unexploded bomb. She was inclined to agree with him.

* * *

She visited him on Sunday mornings, because she could not bear to go to church, and he was always much too drunk to do so. Peeta went to mass and sat beside the Mayor. Katniss marvelled at the faith that resonated from his clasped hands. The war had confirmed either God's impotence or nonchalance for Katniss; Peeta prayed with new fervour. She wondered whether Peeta was simply more trusting than she, or whether she was as cynical and filled with resentment as she felt. Suspecting the latter, it became a relief for Katniss to spend her time with Haymitch. Peeta gave her so much comfort, so much warmth and love, but she struggled to rid herself of the sense of dirtiness, as though her bitterness coated her like the ash of Gloucester Road. She feared that she would turn him dirty too, and so, she locked part of herself away as he held her close. At Haymitch's house, Katniss wore her ash like medals of valour.

"Is it Sunday?" he asked her, bleary-eyed.

She nodded sombrely. He opened the door wider, and she followed him inside.

"What's he made today?"

They were seated opposite one another at Haymitch's dusty kitchen table. Katniss dumped her canvas bag between them wordlessly. Neither was inclined to deviate from routine. Fortunately, neither was Peeta. He baked every Saturday night. Haymitch opened the bag.

"Cheese buns." He held one up, took a bite. "Not bad."

"They're not his best." Katniss took one too, but only nibbled at the edge. "Rationing and all. I don't even know where he got the cheese from."

"It certainly has character." Haymitch exhibited his typical dry humour.

Katniss snorted. Silence fell.

"He's a good type, you know," Haymitch said thoughtfully. There was no need for Katniss to confirm whom he referred to.

"Much too good for me," Katniss muttered, somewhat lacking in conviction. The statement rang true regardless.

"And he doesn't see it," Haymitch responded with a wistful smile. "It's a miracle, really, that beautiful fools like him come along and fall for people like us."

Katniss didn't defend herself, or the man who sat across the table from her. They were beyond pretending.

"I know we're prone to colossal mistakes, Katniss," Haymitch went on thoughtfully, "but- sorry, that's just me, really… Anyway," he screwed his face up in uncharacteristic concentration, "I reckon if we get him through this war alive, we'll finally have done something right."

* * *

 **I'm not sure about you, but I absolutely love the idea of Katniss and Haymitch's Sunday morning ritual, as well as the idea of Peeta teaching war orphans how to read and write (how cute would that be?) I hope I've tied up some somewhat loose ends here - apologies for the time skip. I have to say, we really start jumping between now and the end of the story, but hopefully I'm able to touch on everything you want to see.**

 **Random question here: I've just finished a story that's very loosely Peter Pan based (it was my favourite story as a kid, and the original novel still is now), but seeing as I've kept most of the character names I think I could probably publish it here under the Peter Pan category. I've basically taken the residents of Neverland and transported them to a remote desert community in the Kimberley in Western Australia, and used them to explore the serious social issues that Australia is continuing to neglect there. Would anyone be interested in reading that? I'm not sure whether to bother publishing or not.**

 **Back on topic - teaser for next chapter: Cato gets some good news, and the nurses go dancing.**

 **xx - L.**


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

 _Frankly I shall not feel happy, either as an Englishman or as a supporter of this government, until this bespattered page of our history has been cleaned up and rewritten._

-Victor Cazalet

* * *

12th of December, 1941

 _Dear Clove,_

 _I have wonderful news._

 _No. Wonderful does not even capture it. Clove, ever since this war began, my life has been nothing but bad news, and today, someone has told me something that has me almost too ecstatic for words – hence the incomprehensible nature of this letter._

 _It all started with the bombing of Pearl Harbour. I suppose it is quite abominable of me for such a devastating attack to be a source of my abundant happiness, but please keep in mind that the world seems to work in increasingly strange ways these days. Essentially, the Japanese decided to take out the US Pacific Fleet in order to conquer the Pacific. From what I've gathered, the Americans are furious, and the Europeans are distracted. The Australians however, I can give a more accurate description of: they are immensely panicked._

 _Apparently, this display of intent from Japan has finally caused them to realise that as far as they are concerned, Europe doesn't have very much to do with anything. We, a wondrous mixture of Germans and Jews and Italians, Nazis and refugees and prisoners of war, have been officially classified as 'friendly aliens'._

 _I am going to be released, Clove. I am going to come home. Major Julian Layton has arrived here in Tatura (did I tell you we had been moved? We're in Victoria now. I don't suppose it makes much difference) and told us that we can come home. Apparently, we'll get home faster if we join the British Imperial Forces, so it looks like the Pioneer Corps has a new member. I'm to be stationed in either Scotland or Wales. After being a hemisphere away from home, I suppose being somewhere in the United Kingdom shall be enough for me._

 _Unfortunately, I don't believe your father has much intention of joining the armed forces. He shall still return, but not as soon. Thomas will be with him. I must say, they're having a ridiculous amount of fun in that university of theirs. Your father is running lessons in engineering, and Thomas is still obsessed with reptiles. You should have seen the lizard he found the other day. It is called a goanna, apparently, and it looks like a dinosaur, albeit slightly smaller than those I imagined as a child._

 _So, the university thrives, as does the soccer team (I am the competition leader for goals scored), and although thrived is not the most adequate adjective for our political system - there is still much arguing and no decisions are ever actually made - the politically minded among us seem to be having some sort of fun. Beyond this, our bizarre little community continues to become increasingly absurd. There is talk of – quite unbelievably – a musical in the making. Fortunately, I'll think I'll be out of here by the time it's put on. Benedikt approached me today about playing a Nazi soldier in some scene about Poland – there's not much to be said for our sense of humour – and when I denied, he offered me a place in the_ ballet _corps, of all things. No doubt you'd find it funny, Clove, but I'm not sure my pride could take such a hit. It will be marvellous to be back in a country where there's more to do than produce musicals and squabble over politics._

 _Of course, that is only the beginning of my joy. The thought of returning to Britain is a wondrous one for many reasons, and you are among them. I have missed my family, of course, but you are almost more than that to me. It pains me to admit that I feel somewhat awkward admitting that; we have not seen each other in two years, Clove. You live in Liverpool now, you track planes during air strikes. I wonder whether you still think of me._

 _But do not let my self-consciousness and self-pity ruin what should be a joyous announcement, regardless of what you think of me these days. I'm coming home! My father and I will return, and your father and Thomas not long after. This is a wonderful day. I am so overjoyed that I think I have fallen in love with Julian Layton. He seems to me a diviner messenger than the angel Gabriel. Allow this uncharacteristic 'poeticness' to stand as a testament to my joy. I am quite insane, by this point in the letter, Clove. I think I shall return now to the celebrations. God knows I need to get this out of me._

 _Much joy and love,_

 _Cato._

* * *

"I don't suppose you ladies would care to join us for some drinks tonight?" the young pilot asked, cap low over blue eyes. "We're still waiting for some fuel. Until that arrives, we're on holidays."

"Holidays?" Glimmer asked, amused. "In a war zone?"

"It's a holiday of sorts," he responded in his strong twang, impish grin making his eyes twinkle. "You've got to take what you can get out here."

Glimmer opened her mouth to respond that unlike him, she hadn't yet adopted this attitude towards the opposite sex, when Delly interrupted her.

"We'll certainly come," she assured him.

"I'm extremely glad to hear that, ma'am," the other, a stocky blonde with a Southern drawl, replied. "We'll pick you up at seven. Got a truck off duty."

"We'll arrive in style," the third promised them, with a wink.

Glimmer rolled her eyes as the three young Americans swaggered off. It seemed to her that the oak trees and Alistair Garraway were eons ago, and to giggle for men in uniform seemed naive at best and perverse at the worst; she'd seen fabric like that, tangled in wounds in open flesh. Glimmer had known that her coming of age, in a war zone, was inevitable, but had failed to foresee the ability of war to turn one's stomach long after all the blood was washed away.

"I'm in love," Delly announced promptly.

"With which one?" Madge smirked, raising a brow.

"America!" Delly sighed theatrically and dreamily.

Too tired to play along and too tenuously held together to tell the others how she really felt about it all, Glimmer grudgingly adopted humour as a defensive mechanism, and feigned gagging.

"Melodrama aside, it should be a good bit of fun," Madge said, clearly hoping to boost Glimmer's enthusiasm. "Think about it. How long has it been since we've had a whole day and night off?"

"I had it all planned out," Glimmer said coolly. "I was going to write my letters, curl my hair, mend my stockings-"

At this, Madge laughed and gave her a light hit on the back of the head.

"Stop being ridiculous! Just because you're in love with that boy from home, doesn't mean you can't have a bit of fun."

"Glimmer's in love?" Delly asked pertly.

Glimmer ignored her. "If I'm in love with Marvel," she drawled with a roll of her eyes, "then you're certainly in love with that Gale, Madge."

"Evidently not," Madge countered, "because I did not just attempt to turn down three attractive American pilots."

Glimmer gave up arguing, largely on the grounds that she knew she would lose.

"What are we going to wear?" she asked instead. "We didn't bring any nice clothes."

Delly thought for a moment, and beamed as an idea came to her. "We'll go to the market, buy some material, and make dresses ourselves!"

It was a simple idea, but worked better than Glimmer's pessimism had allowed her to expect. The marketplace in Cairo seemed relatively untouched by the war; the colours were as fantastically bright as they ever had been, and women in flowing dresses bartered for goods in language that sounded like music. Despite Glimmer's scepticism, the fabric was relatively cheap, and of good quality. A sewing machine was loaned grudgingly by a senior nurse, and three dresses were made. Glimmer, with a bodice shirred with elastic and utterly strapless, gave up being bitter and pretended to be a film star. She'd never see these American pilots again, she reasoned, and a drink would stop her memory reaching back into the festering bank of memories that crowded her mind - or, at least, she hoped it would. In an attempt to fend off any sombreness or even reason, she laughed inanely at simple jokes and fussed over Madge's hair. After so many hours of making conversation with the barely living, it was a relief to talk about hairstyles and the best way to obscure the spot on Delly's forehead.

"Good evening, ladies."

The men grinned beside their army-issued truck, and in a wave of hormones and excitement and the novelty of the night, Glimmer supposed that they were rather handsome. She strode forward eagerly, moving with an air of perfect grace until Madge stepped on the hem of her dress, and she found herself sinking to the floor to protect her modesty.

Madge and Delly laughed hysterically. Two of the pilots averted their eyes, coughed politely. The tallest, with blue eyes and a sharp smile, was neither embarrassed nor courteous enough to turn away. Instead, he offered Glimmer a hand. She allowed him to pull her to her feet.

"I don't suppose I'll ever live that down?" she asked as loftily as possible.

Madge shook her head, rendered wordless by mirth.

"I must say, you certainly endeared yourself to me," her tall companion told her.

Glimmer resolutely fought off a blush. Instead, she looked up at him critically. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "I don't believe we've exchanged names yet."

"I'm Private Roger Preston," he told her.

"Glimmer Rambin," she responded, offhandedly. She paused, again studying his face, and fought the urge to laugh at herself for her choice. He was of a towering height, but lanky in build. His blue eyes sparked. "You know, Roger," she told him, "you look quite like another man I know."

* * *

 **Yay Cato! Who's excited for his return? (Also, yes, the musical/ballet was a legit thing. They actually put on two, for the duration of their stay. I happened to find the program in an excellent history book, because, again, I am the world's biggest history nerd.) I suppose things are a little less cheerful in Africa, but at least Delly's having fun, and at least it's finally occurring to Glimmer that perhaps she finds a particular tall man with blue eyes quite endearing... (fingers crossed, huh?)**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Thom's falling apart. Gale does what he can.**

 **xx - L.**


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 2**

 _I would rather walk with a friend in the dark, than alone in the light._

-Helen Keller

* * *

9th of May, 1942

Gale had lost track of the occurrences now; he was uncomfortably accustomed to these moments that occurred shortly before dawn, when Thom would thrash and wake. He would never scream, or make much sound at all asides from the panting of his breaths. There would often be tears on his grimy face, but he never cried. Gale was not sure why he woke with him. Every night, he fell asleep exhausted. Every night, he woke to watch his best friend try to gather the pieces of himself that his sleeping mind had scattered.

The first few nights, Gale had been too cowardly to intervene. He had pretended to sleep, watching Thom through half-closed eyelids. The guilt had settled heavily on his chest eventually, and on the fourth night, when he found himself incapable of returning to sleep even after Thom's panic ran its course, Gale had sat up and pulled a canteen, a piece of paper and a pencil from his pack. As Thom gulped the water, Gale had drawn a set of gallows and nine empty spaces for letters. The two shadowy figures had been silent, except for guesses and answers.

N I G H T M A R E. Thom had filled the spaces with one arm and two legs to spare. Gale had made an addition. N I G H T M A R E ? Thom had simply nodded. This was as close to discussing the trauma as they came. (It unsettled Gale. He couldn't pretend to understand it.) Thom chose F O O T B A L L.

B L I Z Z A R D.

W I N D O W.

S U N R I S E.

T I R E D?

Gale Hawthorne and his best friend had played hangman until dawn.

Now, tonight, on the eighth night he though, but maybe the ninth, Gale could not deny the fact that Thom was falling apart at increasingly rapid rates. His attacks came both day and night. Their Lance Corporal, Finnick Odair, was sympathetic, but the others as unnerved as Gale.

"Was he ever like this at home?" Ryan Mellark had asked, in an undertone, just that afternoon. It had been hot, unbearably so. Gale had sweated in his uniform, and struggled to resent Thom for his breakdown, but had not said any of this. He'd merely shaken his head. It was the ninth of May, Thom's twenty-second birthday, and he was crying like a child. There was land to be crossed, and work to be done. Gale heard Ryan mutter something to Marvel about heartlessness. He did not retaliate, merely wondered how on earth they didn't see it was tearing him apart.

"I don't have a birthday present for you," Gale told his best friend, as he sat himself up clumsily and pushed his hair from his eyes. It took him a few, fumbling moments to find a pencil. S O R R Y.

They'd finally reached their new camp, and an impending push beckoned. Operation Brevity. Gale was sure it would last an age. Only scattered remains of the 7th Armoured Division stood to take place in the attack; they'd been devastated by Operation Compass. According to the senior soldiers, they'd be replenished as a unit after Operation Battleaxe, the push Operation Brevity would supposedly enable. It seemed impossibly far in the future.

"I'm telling you," Gale went on, "this war's good for nothing." A statement flimsily designed to cast the illusion of an alliance between friends.

Thom was not fooled, but remained meek. "I don't need a present," he told his friend. P I C T U R E S Q U E. Thom inclined his head approvingly at the hints of the sunrise. Perhaps it was beautiful, Gale reasoned, but he'd never come around to the intensity of an African sun.

"You're embarrassing me with these fancy words," Gale grumbled instead. Thom had filled in the C, P and Q for him after a premature hanging.

Thom tried to grin at him, and that was when Gale knew that his friend would not be mended by games of hangman or gifts of water or Finnick Odair's arm around his shoulders. Thom had no grin left to give. The attempt turned his mouth into a gaping crack in a splintering face. Gale was suddenly filled with emotion, after being callous for so long. His jaw hardened with resolve as he chose his next word. Thom, whose skills had been somewhat honed by the pre-dawn games, uncovered it with ease. S U R P R I S E. He raised his brows mildly.

"You'll go home," Gale mumbled gruffly in explanation, as he turned and reached for his pack. "I'm going to get you home."

Confusion marred Thom's face as he stood up in mimicry of his best friend. Gale, now kitted up, beckoned for him to follow.

"We're going to go check on our POWs," Gale declared, and marched forward resolutely, Thom trailing by his side.

"Gale, why are we checking on the POWs?" Thom managed.

Gale did not answer him until they were outside of the tents where their poor, old, and generally hopeless Italian prisoners sweltered. They were out of sight of any of the current sentries.

"We have to make it look like an accident," Gale muttered, reaching for his gun.

Realisation dawned on Thom's face. He did not protest, but he did not beg. Gale nodded in grim approval. Thom had some dignity left. The burning beginnings of a sunrise made him a difficult target. Gale motioned for him to hold his hand out to the side. Childhood flickered painfully somewhere in Gale's dried-out mind. An imperceptible desert mirage; a cricket bat in Thom's right hand, Gale winding up to bowl. Gale Hawthorne had already been commended for his skill and valour in Operation Compass, but his hands shook on the trigger of his rifle. A flicker of fear registered on Thom's face. Swallowing all memories of childhood and all thoughts of the future, Gale shot truly. Thom collapsed to his knees, cradling a mutilated arm. Wrist bones shattered, Thom would never write again. Gale hauled him to his feet.

"There's a good bunch of nurses down at Sidi Barrani, and we're going to get you there tonight," he promised him. "They're going to send you home Thom, I promise."

Thom nodded weakly.

"Thank you," he breathed.

Gale shook his head. "You shouldn't be thanking me," he told him. Another soldier, having heard the shot, was approaching now. Marvel. "I thought the idiot was a POW," Gale told his lanky ally, tone changing instantaneously. "Came at me, couldn't see his face with the sun, very unsettled…" Gale shook his head in distress he didn't have to manufacture. "You've seen his attacks, you know what it's like. Jesus, I'm just glad I didn't hit him properly…"

"Bring over a truck!" Marvel hollered at another soldier who'd come running. "We need to get him to Barrani."

"He's not bleeding terribly," Gale muttered, more to himself than anyone else, as he pulled a bandage from his pack and bound the wound. "He should last the trip."

"Won't be able to shoot, though," Marvel commented. Gale saw a glimmer of suspicion in sky-blue eyes. He stared at him defiantly. Marvel held his gaze, without aggression. "It was lucky, is all," he said, and shrugged. "Let's get him onto the truck."

Gale watched them go. Thom sat in the truck next to Ryan Mellark, who even Gale had to admit was the best driver among them. They cut a harsh silhouette against the angry orange of the sky, and were eventually swallowed by it as the truck drove farther and farther away. The sun rose not long after. There was land to be crossed, and work to be done. Under a sky of affronting blue, listening to the lifeless beat of their boots, Gale was left alone to wonder whether he had been a very good friend, or a very bad one.

* * *

 **So basically, everything is sad. I guess the somewhat good news is that Thom gets the hell out of there. I promise the next chapter will be (relatively) cheerful.**

 **I'd like to hear from you! You guys have been pretty quiet recently (except for Hawtsee. Shoutout to Hawtsee for making my day with every chapter I post :D) and you always have good stuff to say.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Cato and Nicholas Ludwig arrive in Liverpool. Clove sheds tears she will later deny. Rory and Katniss plant primroses.**

 **xx - L.**


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 3**

 _They both seemed to understand that describing it was beyond their powers, the gratitude that spreads through your body when a burden gets lifted, and the sense of homecoming that follows, when you suddenly remember what it feels like to be yourself._

-Tom Perrotta

* * *

17th of May, 1942

A letter was clenched between Clove's fingers as she walked briskly through the streets of Liverpool. She'd finally managed to get a few days of leave; she was working long hours these days, after securing a job on the Corps of Military Police – she supposed that Johanna made a good point about the war at least being good for empowering women, even if her role was as dull as directing traffic in military training camps. Today, however, she supposed she had a more typically feminine role to fulfil. She was wearing a skirt and she would not be telling anybody what to do. She was going to greet _Stirling Castle_ as it arrived in Liverpool, because as far as she knew in her limited experience, she was in love with one of its passengers.

She hadn't told Cato this, of course; she'd found herself unable to in her letter writing, and had responded to his mentions of Pearl Harbour, panic in the Pacific and friendly aliens, addressed Julian Layton, the British Imperial Forces and lizards that looked like dinosaurs, had written a whole paragraph dedicated to laughing at the notion of him in a musical, but had determinedly ignored Cato's questioning of whether she still thought about him. (Of course she did. Cato was an idiot sometimes.) If Cato was an idiot, Clove was worse, for perhaps Cato could not understand love, but Clove could not even bring herself to speak of it. With an agitated groan, she increased her pace.

 _Stirling Castle_ had arrived in the port; Clove could not miss its hulking outline against the grey sky. She heard the distant yells of men as the ship was secured and ramps were lowered. Taking a deep breath, Clove resisted the urge to run. It would take time to unload the men. Surely, she could not and would not miss Cato Ludwig's homecoming. Her steps quickened, until the dull ache of a stitch began to niggle under her ribs.

Eventually, she found herself wedged between an old woman and a young mother clutching an infant to her chest, as they craned their necks upwards to scan the sea of faces hanging over the rails above them. Now more than ever, Clove could see how ridiculous it all was. Old men, young men, men holding books and men singing stupidly, their hair pushed by the breeze. Men who had attending lectures in a makeshift university, who had played soccer in hand sewn guernseys. All taken, every last one of them, for being a threat to the country, and now, returned home. Enemy aliens had taken her father and her best friend away from her for close to two years, and the entire notion was a joke.

The ramps had been successfully lowered and fastened now, and the men streamed into the crowd, yelling with joy as their feet touched dry land, as they crumpled, sea-legged, into the arms of the lovers. Clove searched desperately for Cato. She'd told him that she would come. Surely, he'd be looking for her too. There were so many blonde heads. So many booming voices. Clove felt tears of frustration prick at her eyes.

"Clove!"

Like their last encounter at the docks of Liverpool, Cato was the one to find her. She elbowed her way through the crowds towards him. He was not so solid as he once had been, and his skin was darker, his hair cropped short. As she hugged him, however, she knew how insignificant these changes were. He still felt like home.

"Nice hair," she smirked. Childlike derision was their habitual interaction, even after all this time.

He grinned as he ran a hand through the close-cut bristles. "You've never been on one of those boats, Clove. You'd shave your head too, to avoid the lice. Anyhow," he added, examining his reflection in the side of the boat, "I thought Benedikt did a pretty good job."

"You look very handsome," Clove said, and made sure to roll her eyes to hide the truthfulness of her statement.

"I thought so." Cato, smug and self-assured, did not seem fooled.

"Keep it up, and I won't be driving you home," Clove quipped cheekily.

Cato grinned. "I almost forgot. You can drive now! I'm telling you Clove, this whole war's worked out better for you than me. All I've learned is how to embroider an insignia onto a soccer guernsey."

"An admirable skill," Clove responded with a smirk. "I suppose if you hadn't been so proud you might have learned some ballet as well." She couldn't help but smile at Cato's exaggerated scowl. "Don't worry," she added impulsively. "I'll teach you to drive, if you haven't learned by the end of all this nonsense."

"Nonsense," Cato repeated pensively. "You know Clove, I don't think I've ever heard a better word for all of this."

"The world continues to astound and horrify me," Clove agreed fervently. "I mean, I agree that these horrific regimes must be stopped, but we're only in this colossal mess because we didn't so much as bat an eyelid when Germany rearmed, in massive violation of the Treaty of Versailles…" she stopped herself before a political rant ensued. "And of course, a panicked government is a stupid government, so off goes all the German men, and there goes all the street signs, and-"

"It's all madness, really," Cato effectively summed up, and sighed. "Australia wasn't so bad, I know, but it was almost two years of my life, gone. Two years when I should have been in England, with my family," he faltered, "and with you."

They arrived at the car (borrowed from Johanna Mason, borrowed from someone Clove did not know) and Clove managed only to wrap her hand around the door handle before she burst into tears.

"Clove," Cato murmured, striding forward to hold her. "Clove, what-"

"I just-" Clove took a shuddering breath. "I just missed you so much, Cato. I'm so glad to have you home." She rested her face against his chest. "I've wanted to cry for two years, and I haven't."

"Oh Clove," Cato breathed, and his voice made wisps of her hair flutter. "It's all over now. Your father will be back soon. It's all over. You're allowed to cry," he added, and gave her a tight squeeze. "I promise I won't tell anyone."

* * *

In Gloucester Road, much of the rubble had been cleared. The earth stared without malice at the sky that had exposed it. Katniss walked carefully, and thought of unexploded bombs.

"I think here would be a nice place," Rory muttered, pointing to their left.

Katniss nodded without conviction. She considered it all to be her sister's grave, (although that was technically located in East London Cemetery), and the place did not particularly matter to her.

"Then here it is," she told him.

They knelt for what may have been several minutes before Katniss tore into the soil with her spade. It seemed cruel to wound the land further. She reassured herself silently; soon it would be beautiful. Rory joined in, grim determination emphasising the angles of his face. His grey eyes were steely. Rory Hawthorne was a heartbreaker, and he'd had his heart broken. Even after all this time, Katniss did not know what to feel.

"I don't think she ever realised," Rory said.

Katniss waited for elaboration. Rory dug another hole, and swallowed painfully.

"When it went off. I had that moment of this terrible, sinking realisation." Rory sniffed as he looked to the sky. "I don't think she had that." He shook his head now, looking towards the earth again. "She never knew anything went wrong. She was helping someone, and then it was over."

Katniss wondered whether this was intended to reassure her. Looking Rory's trembling lip, even as his hands surged with confidence now, Katniss decided it was nothing but painful honesty. She took the first seedling from the box Rory had carried without a word of complaint, and placed it gently in the ground.

"I don't blame you, you know," Katniss told him.

Rory looked at her blankly.

"I blame myself," she went on, and she could feel the tears on her face, but she did not stop. "She should have been with me."

Rory shook his head resolutely, but did not say a word. His hands shook as he placed a primrose into the ground.

"She wanted to help. More than anything. We both loved her too much to stop her."

Katniss could not argue with this. She patted the earth, making it whole once more. They worked in silence for several more minutes. They planted fifteen primroses, in all. It was Prim's birthday today. Katniss sank back on her heels, and Rory followed suit. She looked to the sky while Rory's tears ran into the dirt.

"Come here," she said eventually, and opened an arm.

Rory huddled in her embrace. Katniss allowed herself to collapse over him. There was no need for pretence. Rory knew, as she knew. They had both loved her too much. The flowers danced in a gentle breeze. The clock marched on.

* * *

 **Well, that felt a little rush, but that was all the editing I could bear, so I hope it's not too disappointing. Yay for Cato coming home, right? And thank God Clove's finally had a good cry. It works wonders.**

 **Thank you so much for all the lovely response to the last chapter - you put a huge smile on my face! If you keep that up, I think I'll get through this upcoming exam period with only a minor mental breakdown... Good luck to all my other Aussies, who are going through the same fortnight of horror.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Thom arrives home. In Egypt, bombs fall like rain.**

 **xx - L.**


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 4**

 _Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?_

-Stephanie Perkins

* * *

27th of June, 1942

The sky was blanketed in thick clouds, the like of which Thom had not seen since he departed almost two years ago, twenty years old and a fool. He'd believed then, that he'd return hardened. Instead, he caught sight of England in the light of the misty dawn, knees curled up to his chest and wrapped childishly in a blanket. He had barely slept the previous night. They were nightmares, he supposed, but that did not seem the right word; they were too vivid, and too deeply entrenched in reality. There was something wrong with Thom, and it was beyond the wrist in the splint and beyond even the dark hollows under his eyes. Thom was not hardened. Thom returned to England in pieces, packaged together tightly in uniform.

* * *

The sky was unnervingly clear. Finnick didn't like the look of it. All necessary precautions had been taken; the men on foot were spaced out between tanks and trucks as they marched steadily onwards. It would take a determined bombing effort to wipe the lot of them out, so long as they were arranged like this.

"Have we got any air cover coming, Sir?"

Finnick recognised the gruff voice of Private Hawthorne walking behind him.

"Not that I know of," Finnick said heavily. "It feels open today, doesn't it?" he asked, tenuously voicing his fears.

Gale Hawthorne, callous to the last, kept a level tone. "Honestly Sir, I think it seems a whole lot like yesterday."

Finnick conceded that he was probably right.

* * *

Somewhere in the time Thom had spent in Africa, he had fallen out of favour with God, or perhaps vice versa. Today, he held a picture of a policeman's daughter in his hand.

"Lillian." He barely whispered her name, but enunciated it with all the fervour of a prayer.

The photograph was beginning to show signs of fading; it had been exposed to the African sun on countless lonely evenings, and had weathered sweat and sandstorms. Despite this, the sight of her face continued to anchor him. In those moments that felled him almost daily, and made him forget himself, Lillian remained real. She was all Thom had to remind him of who he had once been – he did not suppose Gale could do the same anymore, even after all he'd done for him. (There was not a night he didn't see Gale's face silhouetted against the flames of a burning, screaming tank.) Thom knew that it was possible that Lillian had moved on. He decided, grimly, that if she had, there would be no point in struggling to hold reality in his crumbling hands. If there were no Lillian to hold him together, he would take off his uniform, step off the docks, and scatter the pieces of himself in the ocean, where they would perhaps roll with the waves until the end of the earth.

* * *

"What's happened?" Finnick raised his brows in alarm.

Private Quaid scowled emphatically, hoisting himself partially out of the gun carrier so that he was free to fold his arms in a resolute expression of dissatisfaction. "Something wrong with the bloody thing," he muttered venomously. "Gear's not catching where it's supposed to. It hasn't been the same since we were stuck in that bloody salt marsh. We need a mechanic."

"You can't fix it, Mellark?" Finnick asked hopefully.

Emerging with oil on his face, Ryan shook his head resolutely. "Everything's clogged up, Lance Corporal."

"Oh," Finnick groaned, "hold on a moment Ryan, I think I've seen this before. You're not the first gun carrier to get stuck in a salt marsh. It's not as bad as it looks. Marvel, hop out a moment, I'd like to take a look."

"Absolutely, Sir." Marvel leapt from the vehicle gratefully. "I'm sure you know much more about his than I do."

"Just been here longer, Private," Finnick muttered grimly as he lowered himself into the carrier. He was examining the engine, realising with some relief that yes, he had seen this before, when Marvel spoke with casual inquisitiveness that sent shudders through him.

"Is that some air cover we've got coming, Sir?"

* * *

The crewmember of the ship whose blanket he had borrowed insisted that he should keep it. Thom was not sure whether the man was compulsively generous or scared that Thom's madness was contagious, but he was persistent, and so, Thom left the ship sure that he looked as weak as he felt with a wrist in a cast, a sunken face and a tartan blanket folded over his good arm. This was not the glorious homecoming he'd fooled himself into expecting.

"Lillian."

Under his breath, Thom prayed to a deity of whom he would never tire. His feet left the ramp of the ship, and touched the wood of the Liverpool docks. Africa was suddenly worlds away, but he could not be home. "Lillian," he murmured, again. Feeling as though he was floating in some bizarre middle dimension, Thom turned to look at the ocean. The horrors he had left behind were easier to face than a future he might spend in England, without ever returning to her arms.

* * *

Paranoia heightened for reasons he could not comprehend, Finnick scrambled out of the gun carrier, knocking his head on a beam and barely registering the pain. He looked to the sky, and exhaled with relief. British planes. There was nothing to worry about after all.

"Looks like it," he responded to Marvel's inquiry.

Then, he ducked back into the carrier to further examine the engine, and died almost instantaneously, without the slightest awareness that something might be wrong.

* * *

"Thom!"

Her voice was all that he needed to hear. Crumbling wrist, hollow eyes, tartan blanket and all, Thom sank to his knees, and cried shamelessly with the sweetest relief he would ever feel.

"Oh darling." Lillian was kneeling beside him. "What have they done to you?"

Thom struggled for his voice, holding Lillian's hand to his cheek as he swallowed painfully. "I just… I thought perhaps you had moved on."

Despite it all, Lillian laughed. "Oh Thom, you really are rather silly sometimes. You know that it would take a lot more than this to make me leave you."

* * *

Marvel dove for cover where there was none; face full of sand, he could only scream silently as wreckage from the gun carrier landed on his legs, burning them. The ringing in his ears deafened him. A bomb. He tried to breathe, and choked on sand and panic. They were British planes. British. His brain ran from thought to thought without obstruction in the form of reason. Why, how, why, stop, please, why, not fair, oh God, not fair.

In that moment, he could not even bear to think of Ryan and Finnick, whose gun carrier rained upon him in fiery chunks. He could not think. Marvel wondered whether perhaps he would lie there, in the sand, forever.

Then, another bomb landed with a deafening crash, and Marvel scrambled to his feet, propelled now only by the rawest, most detestable will to survive.

* * *

They walked together, back to the car where her father waited. Thom had always felt the need to prove himself when around Sergeant Taylor, but today, Lillian held his good hand in her own, and he leaned on her. That which had felt important to him before the war did not seem so crucial anymore. He sat in the back seat, with Lillian.

"Glad to be home, Thom?" Sergeant Taylor asked, looking at him in the rear-vision mirror.

Thom nodded heavily. "You have no idea."

* * *

The 7th Armoured Division and the British 3rd Hassars were under attack from their own planes. Mere ants and beetles from thousands of feet above, realisation seemed unlikely. The sheer stupidity of this made Marvel choke out snatches of bitter laughter as he ran, blindly.

Gale Hawthorne's large hand caught him on the shoulder.

"Don't run this way!"

Marvel could barely hear Gale's voice, but read his lips.

"Get away from the tanks, they'll aim for the tanks. Scatter. Go!"

And so, Marvel staggered on. The raid would not end for two hours, by the end of which three hundred and fifty nine men were dead. When the skies finally cleared, it was Gale who pulled the shell-shocked men from their makeshift hiding places. He offered Marvel a hand grimly as he pulled him to his feet.

"Look at us," Marvel said slowly, surveying the scene around him, where men scampered and cowered behind bits of artillery. "We really are a bunch of desert rats."

* * *

"Why are we going to your house?" Thom frowned, looking out of the grimy window of the car. "I don't want you to have to go to any more trouble for me. I don't need lunch or-"

"Thom," Lillian said gently, "your house is gone. London's been bombed terribly."

She wrapped her words in softness, as though to prevent him falling apart. Thom, who was in fact in pieces already, merely blinked.

"That's quite incredible," was all he said.

* * *

 **Sorry for the chaotic structure here, but I felt it kind of worked. Of course, I owe you a bigger apology for killing Finnick and Ryan and 300 odd others... I'm sorry. In my defence, that friendly fire attack did actually happen, so it was kind of inevitable. At least Thom made it home? You know what, I'll just stop talking...**

 **Teaser for next chapter: telegrams arrive in Britain.**

 **xx - L.**


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

 _Young John, the postman, day by day,_

 _In sunshine or in rain,_

 _Comes down our road with words of doom_

 _In envelopes of pain._

-Mary E Fullerton

* * *

11th of July, 1942

Johanna lived with Annie now, when she wasn't working. She'd put the apartment in Liverpool up for rent; her roommate, Clove, had no desire to keep it, speaking eagerly to her about returning to London to live with her newly reunited family. (That had made Johanna's stomach twist in a sort of jealousy.) She tried to make herself useful around the Odair house; although never typically feminine, she could cook a fair meal, and kept the garden from falling into disarray. She let Annie do the cleaning. She found it therapeutic, if not somewhat addictive. It seemed both of them found respite in housework. When Annie compulsively rubbed at the windows, Johanna drew the curtains, and made her help chopping up the vegetables. When Johanna dug out plants and replanted them centimetres away, or diced onions until they were no longer edible, Annie pressed her son into her arms. In a world where protectors were thrown into the flames of war, Annie and Johanna looked after one another. While Annie, who'd been awake all night with Noah and her thoughts while Johanna worked an ambulance night shift, slept in, Johanna made breakfast, and collected the mail.

MRS ANNALISE ODAIR 32 RADNOR RD TWICKENHAM

DEEPLY REGRET TO REPORT DEATH OF YOUR HUSBAND LCPL FINNICK ODAIR 26409 ON ACTIVE SERVICE LETTER FOLLOWS SHORTLY

MAJ GEN JAMES RENTON

Johanna choked back bile, and her shaking hand dropped the telegram. The world seemed suddenly foreign, her grip on reality unsteady. Finnick, Finnick, Finnick, no. Her best friend. No.

Unsteady on her feet, Johanna sat on the ground in front of Annie's house, and forced herself to breathe. She thought of Finnick, of his corpse; she wondered sickly if he were disfigured by some terrible artillery, or whether he lay, peaceful, grin frozen. She banished these thoughts from her mind as the bile fought its way up her throat again. She thought of Annie. Oh, Annie. She hung so tenuously to control as it was. Her child slept inside. She lay wasted in her bed, unable to sleep with thought of her husband. Finnick, never to return. Annie, never to heal. Sitting like a child on the cobblestones, Johanna clutched her knees to her chest and cried.

She was sure that she could have cried for an age – she hadn't cried for years, and had carried a lot of sadness even before it all shattered – but was distracted from her own sobbing by another cry. Noah. His cries did not lament a tragedy that would hang over him forever; he cried in hunger, most likely. Wiping the tears from her face, Johanna stood up. She had Annie to look after. She had Noah to look after. Her private sorrows did not matter at all.

"The same eyes as your father," Johanna murmured to the baby in her arms. He was placated by the bottle she offered him. Annie hadn't liked the idea of her son drinking from a bottle, but Johanna had stubbornly pointed out that Annie was in no fit physical state to consistently feed Noah, and the paediatrician had backed her up, recommending Myerling's evaporated milk. Johanna watched Noah carefully. "You're going to make your mother very sad, I'm afraid," she mused.

It was hours until Annie woke from her fitful sleep, and plodded into the kitchen, still in her nightie. She was beautiful, Johanna thought, despite it all. Finnick had loved her so much. Telegram buried under other envelopes, Johanna did not have the strength to break her heart.

"I was thinking of going back to work," Annie said vaguely, as she spread marmalade onto a piece of toast. "Not quite yet, of course, but maybe at the end of the year. I always imagined that once I had children I wouldn't work again, or at least not until they were all grown and married, but I wonder whether that's the best way to do things these days."

Johanna could not look Annie in the eye. "Times are certainly changing," she agreed tremulously.

"Of course, it would only be part-time. They're not particularly generous with leave, and I suppose with our luck Finnick won't be back by then…" she trailed off. Though unusually stoic today, it seemed that mention of Finnick was still painful. As Johanna's tongue struggled around what could not be said, Annie changed the topic. "Goodness, you'd think Noah would be asleep after screaming all night, but he's still quite energetic, isn't he?"

Johanna looked down at a fatherless infant, suckling contentedly and with admirable fervour. She watched Annie approach the pile of mail, and she took the role of the coward. She bit her tongue – hard, painfully – and averted her gaze.

"Oh."

It was the softest, most pitiful noise.

"Johanna, there…" An arduous gulp. "Something's wrong, Johanna," Annie whispered.

Johanna closed her eyes, but she knew what piece of paper had been placed on the table in front of her. She forced her eyes open.

MRS ANNALISE ODAIR 32 RADNOR RD TWICKENHAM

DEEPLY REGRET TO REPORT DEATH OF YOUR HUSBAND LCPL FINNICK ODAIR 26409 ON ACTIVE SERVICE LETTER FOLLOWS SHORTLY

MAJ GEN JAMES RENTON

She'd read it once, and could not bear to do so again. Eyes swimming with tears she thought she had banished, Johanna slumped over Noah's tiny body, broken. Eyes now closed, Johanna could only hear Annie's heart wrenching sobs. For minutes, Noah remained silent, apparently blissfully unaware, but soon, perhaps for hunger or perhaps for the father he had lost, Finnick Odair's infant son joined the chorus.

* * *

She found him in the kitchen, crying, fists buried in half-kneaded dough. A telegram glared from the table that she didn't dare to look at. She resented herself for the words that slipped from her lips.

"Who is it?"

"Ryan," he choked.

Katniss did not put Peeta through the torment of answering the next question. She steeled herself to examine the telegram. Not missing. Not injured. Dead. Dead on active service, letter follows shortly, no further arguments shall be entered into. Irreversibly, heartbreakingly dead.

"Peeta…" Katniss managed, and trailed off. She did not know what to say.

"I won't have anyone left, soon," he said sorrowfully. A few tears splashed onto the dough.

"There's still Matthew and Billy," Katniss reminded him gently. She paused. "And me."

He looked up at her then, looked at her with blue eyes rimmed with red.

"Peeta, my whole family is dead, but I have you. You're my home," Katniss whispered. "We can be family to each other now."

Peeta sank to his heels, crying not only with grief, but perhaps with relief as well. Katniss hauled him to his feet. His face was covered with flour and scraps of dough now; he'd tried to wipe the tears away with hands covered with the sticky remnants of his unfinished project. It could have been comical, on any other day.

"Come here," Katniss said fondly, leading him over to the sink. She wet a cloth, and took his chin in her hand. Carefully, she wiped the mess and the tears from his face.

"Thank you," he managed.

"No need," she assured him, and tried to muster a smile. "It's what we do for each other, alright? We look out for one another. We're family now."

"Home," Peeta murmured distractedly, repeating a fragment of her earlier assurance.

"That's right." Her hand was still on his face, although the cloth hung limply by her side. "You and me, alright Peeta?"

Wordlessly, he enveloped her in his arms, guided her head onto his shoulder. Katniss did not feel dirty any more, did not feel as though there was any part of her left to hide. She and Peeta were one and the same now, tied together by tragedy. Tragedy, Katniss considered, and perhaps something else. Because, head nestled in the warmth of his neck, feeling his big hands on her back, Katniss was finally sure that she loved him.

* * *

 **And it's just joyous chapter after joyous chapter here... sorry about that. I hope this chapter's alright - I've just finished exams and my brain is pretty dead. Let me know how you found it.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: three funerals without bodies. (Wow, that really sells itself, doesn't it? Can't really tell you to get pumped…)**

 **xx - L.**


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

 _Your coffin reached the monstrous hole. And a part of me went down into the muddy earth with you and lay down next to you and died with you._

-Rosamund Lupton

* * *

17th of July, 1942

Marvel and Gale squinted in the harsh light of the coming dawn. They cut a sad silhouette; two tiny figures, the only two remaining of what had been five, dwarfed by the African sun.

The remains of the 7th Armoured Division, those that had not been decimated by the friendly fire attack or the Axis capture of Mersa Matruh the following day, were supposedly now a mobile army reserve in the Battle of El Alamein. They'd been involved in conflict at the Ruweisat Ridge that had ended only yesterday, with the Allies taking over two thousand prisoners of war, according to one of the boys from New Zealand. "Well over a thousand boys from New Zealand alone, dead," he'd told them bitterly, "but they couldn't be happier, because we've got our two thousand prisoners and our ridge." Marvel had nodded grimly. He shared the soldier's cynicism; it grew in him every day, as the numbers of their division dwindled and the war continued to demand further sacrifice. Victories were fleeting and came at a cost. It was at Ruweisat Ridge that Marvel came to fully understand his insignificance in this colossally wasteful war game.

This morning, not even twelve hours after their victory had been won, Marvel walked amongst the wreckage. Gale, silently, stonily, accompanied him. Marvel was sure that he would never understand his dark-haired ally, but he appreciated the company.

"Are you looking for something?" Gale asked eventually, as Marvel's eyes combed the ground.

"No," Marvel said, and shook his head, "just… looking."

Gale shrugged, and they trudged on.

The remains of a tank produced sharp shards of metal; it presented them with pipes and plates and unidentifiable mechanical pieces. Kneeling, Marvel collected two long, straight pieces of metal, and took rope from his belt. He lashed together a cross, and erected it in the sand, stabilising it with the wreckage. He stood, and bowed his head, perhaps in reverence, perhaps to avoid the harsh glare of the sun. Gale did the same. Marvel did not know, precisely, for whom he had created this monument. There were so many to mourn. Their allies. Their enemies. The well over a thousand boys from New Zealand. Ryan and Finnick, of whom they had no remains to bury. Thom, who lived. The makeshift cross sagged under the weight of so many.

"We should go back now," Gale told him, eventually. He had consulted the watch on his wrist; the watch that he had miraculously won from Ryan in the penultimate game of cards he'd ever played. (Ryan had, fittingly, won his final hand, but they'd been playing for cigarettes.)

"Alright," Marvel agreed.

They walked back to the remainder of their division, feet crunching on newly conquered soil. Four days later, the ridge would be a battlefield once more. The cross would be knocked over, the men mourned forgotten. And Marvel and Gale would fight doggedly on.

* * *

It was an uncomfortably hot day to be wearing black, but Peeta didn't loosen his tie. He thought of Africa, and of infantry uniform. Ryan had spent the last three years of his life suffering discomfort; it seemed the least that Peeta could do. A headache hammered at the inside of his skull. Sweat pooled at his cuffs. There was no body for them to bury.

The attendance was pitifully low. Ryan had been loved by so many, but only Katniss, Peeta, Mayor Undersee and a few distant relatives gathered in the church. The friends he'd made so effortlessly were scattered across the globe, dead and alive, in soldier's uniforms. Of his family, he was in good company; he was reunited with his parents in death, and had two brothers seemingly poised to join him. It broke Peeta's heart to see the church so empty. He told himself this was why tears trickled silently down his cheeks.

"Merciful Father, hear our prayers and comfort us; renew our trust in your Son, whom you raised from the dead; strengthen our faith that Ryan and all who have died in the love of Christ will share in his resurrection; who lives and reigns with you, now and for ever."

The voice of the priest, at least, granted Peeta some comfort. He was familiar with the gentle intonations, the quiet reverence, the softly burning faith. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and clasped his hands.

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us all with the gift of this earthly life and has given to our brother Ryan his span of years and gifts of character."

Gratitude. Peeta exhaled his anger, his grief, and tried to feel it. Ryan had lived twenty-three years. Supposedly, his death had been fast.

"God, our Father, we thank you now for all his life, for every memory of love and joy, for every good deed done by him and every sorrow shared with us."

The memories were painful now, despite it all. Peeta's headache increased, as Ryan's grin swung hazily in his vision. Ryan, playing with Peeta and their toy planes. Ryan, sneaking him cookies. Ryan, holding ice to a welt on his face. They had always been allies against what had seemed a horrifying enemy in their mother. Now, a greater enemy had separated them. Peeta felt sick.

"We thank you for his life and for his death, we thank you for the rest in Christ he now enjoys, we thank you for giving him to us, we thank you for the glory we shall share together. Hear our prayers through Jesus Christ our Lord."

"Amen," Peeta murmured imperceptibly, and fainted.

He would wake with someone else holding ice to his face; someone with dark hair and grey eyes, and a touch so light he wondered if he had regained consciousness at all. Her quiet kiss on his forehead told him that he had.

* * *

Annie could not bear the idea of a traditional funeral; she would not be able to face the other mourners, or the priest whose deity Finnick had never really believed in (and who she, accordingly, had also rejected), and the purchase of a respectable black dress seemed inane to her. That aside, the promised letter that had followed the devastating telegram had informed Annie that there were no remains of her husband left to bury. A bomb. A gun carrier. The end had apparently come very fast. In nightmares, Annie saw bits of Finnick rain on the parched desert.

So, Annie and Johanna and Noah got on a train, and went to the coast. They walked along the green of the cliffs. It was the most beautiful place in the world, Annie thought. The pain of the memories did not prevent her from loving the crash of the waves, the bizarre contrast of the gentle green and the steep drop, the roaring ocean that slowly, surely, ate away at the land. At home, her mind had been blurred, numbed with grief. Here, the sharp cold that came off the ocean and the unencumbered light of the sun healed the mind Johanna fondly called unwell.

"I think here is a nice place," she decided eventually. The odd trio came to a stop.

The cliff was steeper than ever here, and a boulder, striking and oddly shaped, rose from the sea beneath them. It was battered, repeatedly, by the ocean, but still lifted its head to face the sun. Annie and Finnick had been here before; they fondly referred to this stone as the Lion.

Sitting on the ground, only inches from the edge, Annie and Johanna arranged the smooth pebbles into a cross. Flowers swayed around it. The sun blessed it. Annie allowed her tears to anoint it. Noah lay on his stomach on the grass, and grabbed a flower in his fat fingers. Johanna smiled, although tears rendered her face shiny in the sunlight.

Annie's last letter to Finnick – she'd planned to send it, that morning that Johanna collected the post – was rolled carefully. It was a letter of reassurance; Noah is healthy and happy, he looks more like you each day, I'm doing well, Johanna's moved in, the raspberries are doing marvellously. She did not know where Finnick was – secretly, she'd always harboured faint beliefs of heaven – but she was sure that this could not be the end, and that wherever he was, he could probably use some reassurance. She placed it into the bottle, with her wedding ring, and corked it.

"Are you sure?" Johanna raised her brows, as Annie handed the bottle to her. "You don't want to keep the ring?"

"I'm sure." Annie's voice was whipped away in the wind, but Johanna understood.

"Alright," she shrugged. She held the bottle deftly in her hands, and stepped backwards a few paces. An elegant run-up, a powerful throw – the bottle soared magnificently through the air in a large arc, and hit the water soundlessly.

Annie strained her eyes, but she could not pick it out amongst the blues and grey and gushing whites. Instead, she turned to her son, and scooped him up so that she held him in her lap. His eyes were the same colour as the ocean.

* * *

 **Vaguely less tragic this time around? I try.**

 **I'm off overseas as of tomorrow for a fortnight, without any internet, so you won't hear anything from me. I'd love to come back to some nice reviews :)**

 **Teaser for next chapter: our characters ring in the new year of 1943; similar to what I did for my Christmas chapter.**

 **xx - L.**


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 7**

 _For last year's words belong to last year's language_

 _And next year's words await another voice._

 _And to make an end is to make a beginning._

-T.S. Eliot

* * *

1st of January, 1943

The two families had not sat together, all nine of them, in two and a half years. With minutes until midnight, they continued to play cards and laugh loudly, prompted by the giddiness of being reunited and the wine that they'd finished alarmingly fast.

"Do we have champagne?" Simon inquired brightly. "I think we're supposed to toast to the new year with champagne."

"Of course we do!" Hans responded, standing. He was uncharacteristically jovial, and his glasses had slipped a little down his nose.

"Oh dear," Julia Ludwig sighed, but couldn't help but giggle. "I shouldn't have let you two boys get so drunk."

"Of course you should have," Max told her cheerfully. "It's a wonderful way of celebrating our adulthood."

"Your birthday was over a week ago," Cato reproached his brothers with a roll of his eyes.

Clove laughed easily and generously, in a way she had not laughed for a long time.

Anna watched her daughter and the boy who could have been her son. They sat close together; they'd moved slowly, unconsciously, towards one another as the night had progressed. Anna thought of orbiting moons and planets. She was sure that Cato's hand rested on Clove's leg.

"Are they going to be married?" she asked Julia in an undertone.

Julia snorted into her wine. "Undoubtedly."

* * *

The moonlight blessing him, Rory watered primroses. Hazelle watched him, arms folded in the face of the cold. She was prepared to indulge her broken son's late night whims, prepared to trek across London on New Year's Eve, so long as it meant that she never took her eyes off of him.

* * *

"Wake up," Peeta murmured softly.

Katniss, asleep on the couch tucked under his arm, stirred slightly, but did not wake. They'd been left alone by the Undersees – "We're much too old for all this staying awake until midnight nonsense" – and Katniss had insisted she was determined to see the New Year tick over, before she fell asleep.

"Come on Katniss." He tried again, poked a dimple in her cheek. "Katniss, wake up, it's almost-"

"Happy New Year," Katniss mumbled into his chest without opening her eyes, and went back to sleep.

* * *

"Happy New Year!" Madge hissed excitedly, entering the tent that she shared with Glimmer.

"You're joking," Glimmer mumbled, half asleep, into her pillow.

"Not at all," Madge said brightly. "It's midnight, my dear, which means that my shift is now over, and it is time for you to get out of bed and begin the first shift of the new year."

"I hate you," Glimmer grumbled as she sat up, but smiled as she stretched.

* * *

Marvel slept with his rifle in his hands.

* * *

"It's no good," Annie said so simply, so plaintively. The moonlight made her hair shine.

"What's no good?" Johanna asked cautiously.

"Him. Me. Being a mother," Annie responded, voice flat. "I can't do it, Johanna. I know so much about infants, about their health and what to do, but I can't…" she sniffed, "I can't do it. Look," she wailed now, pointing to her. "He's quiet with you."

"You'll get better," Johanna soothed, but her voice strained as it tried to cover the cracks in her words. Would she get better? From everything Johanna had seen, Annie was in some sort of sick descent. She had not bonded with Noah. She was barely close to Johanna now, either. But God, she couldn't say that. "Annie, it will get easier."

"There's something _wrong_ , Jo," Annie said emphatically, slamming her hands on the table. "There's something wrong with me. I had a dream, and it-" Her voice was swallowed by her sobs. "I killed him. And you. I killed you both."

Johanna could not speak. The breath had been knocked out of her.

"I thought about killing myself," Annie said softly, as though offering an apology, "to save you."

She hadn't wanted to do it - she'd sworn she never would - but Johanna bundled mother and son into the ambulance and drove them to the hospital, the tolling of the church bell reverberating painfully inside of her skull, celebrating the arrival of a midnight that Johanna had forgotten the significance of.

* * *

Haymitch ate bread from a canvas bag, and watched the moonlight crawl slowly across the table. The photo of a girl beamed at him, drenched in the silvery glow of the moon. As useless of a fiancé he had been, he'd never forgotten her birthday. The first of January was an easy one to remember. Gripping the bottle tightly, he watched the clock tick over. Out of reverence, perhaps, he always waited for midnight to strike before he took his first sip. The liquor burned his throat. He grimaced. It always was a long night.

* * *

After waiting for parents and brothers to retire to their respective rooms, Cato and Clove celebrated the New Year an hour late in the tangled sheets of the bed in the Ludwig guest room.

"We don't have to get married now, do we?" Cato asked eventually, as he lay down beside her.

Clove laughed, and shook her head. "We wouldn't want to prove our parents right."

* * *

There was just enough light to read the watch he had won from a dead man. The second hand ticked over, and Gale's gaze fell to the prisoners slumped on the ground.

"Happy New Year," he muttered to himself.

A prisoner opened his eyes and raised his brows. Gale groaned.

"Why are you awake? Go back to sleep," he snapped.

The prisoner did not seem intimidated, and merely blinked at him. "New Year?" he asked in a strong accent.

"New Year," Gale confirmed wearily.

The prisoner smiled at him. "Happy New Year," he parroted.

Gale stubbornly refused to engage with him. The prisoner's eyes turned from hopeful to childishly resentful.

" _Ich bin nur_ …" he faltered in his speech. "I am eighteen years old."

This must have been a phrase he'd learned in basic English classes, in primary school, perhaps. These were the only words he had. This was the only way he knew to communicate to Gale his vulnerability, his desire to have a happy New Year. That was all he wanted. Once upon a time, he would have broken Gale's heart. Tonight, shadows lay in Gale's face.

" _Wunderbar_ ," he responded sourly. "Go back to sleep."

* * *

 **Sorry for disappearing on you for a month! I came back from my trip and was pretty much straight back into school, and essentially forgot that this story existed. If I ever do something like that again, please send me a nagging review and tell me to update, because I feel terrible.**

 **I have to confess, I really like these little, broken down ones, although it's a little odd to be celebrating the New Year in July. Any favourites?**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Marvel meets Alastair, (poor bloke, I haven't featured him in ages), in their brief respite in Tripoli. Johanna battles on.**

 **xx - L.**


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

 _I think there are certain ways that people are always themselves, but I do think people change._

-Mike White

* * *

27rd of January, 1943

Marvel walked in the shadow of a towering stone wall. Even four days after their victory, he struggled to believe it that they could have conquered this ancient city. Tripoli, after days that were blurred into one another by the constant roar of the artillery, was theirs. It had, of course, come at a price, but Marvel was worn down enough to be callously guiltless, simply grudgingly grateful that he wasn't among the casualties.

Felled planes littered the ground like broken toys abandoned by distractible children, and skeletons of buildings grinned toothily. Somewhat consolingly, for each reminder of the vanquished Italians, a signal of the new British occupation stood. Hospital tents were being fixed in the spaces cleared by the bombs, and apparently, there would be a visit from Winston Churchill and a parade down the palm-lined street Marvel walked upon now. It all seemed vaguely ridiculous to him. As soon as the planes and the tanks were repaired, as soon as the men's moral was suitably boosted, they would march on again.

They were off to take Medenine next, according to Gale. He had it all planned out. Medenine, Mareth Line, Gabès, Enfidaville, Tunis. Victory. The blisters in Marvel's feet ached and he did not look forward to the barrage of sounds and bullets that were to come, but with the end almost in sight, he dismissed his weariness. There simply wasn't any other way to cope with it. Marvel was certain that no amount of sleep would dull the ache of exhaustion. And so, he had a general policy of pressing on. He'd intended on joining Gale and some other men from their division at the beach, and the thought of the cool water was enough to make him walk briskly.

Ahead of him, he recognised a group of men from the Desert Air Force. They were a renowned but motley group; a unit made up of pilots from Britain, Australia, South Africa and the USA. They played cards in an abandoned shop. Despite their jumbled composition, Marvel had to admit that so far in the campaign they'd done their job well.

"G'day," one greeted him brightly as he walked past. His Australian accent was rough but warm. "Fancy a game? We need one more player. Odd numbers."

"Uh," Marvel responded, taken aback, "I'd like to get a swim in before sunset, actually, so I'd best keep going. Sorry about your game."

"Don't worry about it," another said with a dismissive wave of his hand. His accent carried familiar British intonations. "He's been asking everyone who goes past, the pain that he is."

"Oh, it's not a problem," Marvel assured him, then paused. He looked at the man closely. His dark hair curled loosely, his smile was brilliant. Marvel fought the urge to groan. "Alastair Garraway?"

The man raised his brows mildly. "Yes, but I'm afraid I don't know you."

"Marvel Haddington," Marvel explained briskly, extending his hand. "I worked in the Rambin stables."

"The Rambin stables… oh dear." A look of comprehension dawned on Alastair's face, and he laughed a little as he shook Marvel's hand. "That's quite embarrassing."

Unsure of what else to do, Marvel laughed with him. "I'm afraid I've heard rather a lot about you," he told him.

Alastair groaned with good humour.

Another Australian frowned. "Is he talking about that girl you had before the war?"

"That's the one," Alastair conceded.

"They tended to meet up quite close to the stables," Marvel said with a smirk.

"Romeo and Juliet," a man snorted, voice twisted oddly with an Afrikaner accent.

Alastair grimaced. "I'd forgotten what sods we were."

"It was a long time ago," Marvel conceded generously. "She's certainly changed a lot. She's here, actually. Nursing."

"Here?" Alastair's eyebrows shot up. "Well, I'd best not get hurt then, because that would certainly be awkward."

* * *

"It's a relatively new treatment," the nurse explained calmly. "It sounds and looks quite horrible, but I can assure you that the patient becomes instantly unconscious. Some psychiatrists use anaesthetics as well, largely to relax the muscle. I'm sure Dr Harwood wouldn't object to using some if you preferred that option."

Johanna's mouth was dry. She did not understand why everyone seemed to think she was capable of making decisions on Annie's behalf.

"Anaesthetic would probably be best," she managed.

"I'll see that it's arranged," the nurse said with a small smile. She paused, and looked at Johanna carefully. "It's very difficult to care for someone with this degree of depression. It may be difficult to accept, but Mrs Odair won't come out of this by herself. The childbirth, the death of her husband, it's beyond that now. It's physical, we have reason to believe; it's the makeup of the brain. ECT allows us to bring her out of this state."

"It's the right thing to do," Johanna stammered. "I know."

"It's simply difficult to send her to it," the nurse finished for her. "I see it a lot, Ms Mason. I understand as well as one can without experiencing it myself."

Johanna nodded, eyes dull. "How long will she stay here?" she asked eventually.

"It will likely be a matter of weeks," she responded smoothly. "We hope that the ECT has her eating and drinking again. Once we have her eating and drinking, and we feel that the suicidal or homicidal thoughts are contained, we'll send her home." She shuffled some papers. "Are you able to take care of the child during that time?"

"I can look after him alright," Johanna sighed. "I work though, normally. I don't suppose I'll be able to do that anymore."

"Unless you can find someone to come over and help out? Allow you to get to work?" the nurse inquired. "Your mother, perhaps? Or Mrs Odair's?"

Johanna's face darkened. "Annie's parents died in the Great War…" she sighed. "We need the money coming in. I suppose I could contact my mother."

The nurse looked at her with thinly veiled curiosity, but said nothing. Johanna did not elaborate.

"Would you like to see her before she receives the treatment?" she asked eventually.

Johanna nodded, despite the fear that drummed through her veins and made her mouth dry. She had not known what to say for Annie for a long time, as she slumped inwards and fell into another world. At home, the knives were locked in a drawer to which only Johanna had a key. She didn't know what to do with the ghost that had taken the place of her housemate; was someone still human after they stopped eating, drinking, sleeping? Johanna was overwhelmed by a sudden despair. She could not imagine that electrical currents would save her friend.

"Hello Annie," she tried to sound cheerful, as she entered the room. She knew that she was not fooling anyone.

Annie glared at her with dull eyes.

Johanna sat down in the visitor's chair. She was the only person, in all these weeks, to have occupied it. "Do you mind if my mother moves in?" she asked eventually. "To help look after Noah?"

"Replacing me?" Annie asked, sharply.

Johanna shook her head. "I never could, you know."

Annie didn't believe her; Johanna could read it clearly in her eyes. It didn't bother Johanna as much as it might once have.

"It will all be worth it, one day, Annie," she said breezily and self-assuredly. The façade may not have fooled Annie, but she knew if she heard the weakness in her own voice she'd fall to pieces. "Give it a few weeks, and we'll have you back."

Then, she left the room, collected Noah from a nurse, and strode back to the train station. Only once she was seated in the carriage, hurtling through the countryside, did she begin to cry her heart out.

* * *

 **Bit of an ehh chapter, but I had to progress the war, give poor old Al a cameo, and catch up Annie. I wonder if I should have let her deteriorate so fast - I could have easily devoted a handful of extra chapters to her - but in the end I decided that this better reflected the sudden manner in which minds can fall apart. I hope it's not all too tragic from you.**

 **I'd really love to get this story back rolling again. The fact that it's a bit stagnant is 99.8% my fault, but hearing from you guys would definitely help me pick it up again, so please do review! We're in 1943 now, and those of you who are vaguely as historically nerdy as I am will know that the Italians don't hold on in Africa much longer. Things are getting exciting! Hopefully, I'll pick up the pace, and you guys will enjoy it with me.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: the Battle of Mareth Line. (Again, for the nerds - you know that this one's a big deal.)**

 **xx - L.**


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

 _Some live, some die. It's the only way to view it. Anything else is just self-torture and arrogance. Because we are not gods, none of us are gods._

\- Triage, Scott Anderson

* * *

20th of March, 1943

It was darker now; away from the frontlines, after midnight, the men could only squint and feel their way forwards. The significance of tonight's push was made evident by the lack of men who were uninvolved in the fight. Occasionally, a group of soldiers would run past them, or new artillery would be rolled out, but they all travelled in the opposite direction. All the men were pressed up against the German and Italian flank, and Marvel, Gale and the dying man between them could have been alone in the desert, in the night. Even the roars and rumbles of the battle seemed dimmed. Something like fireworks danced around them. It could have been beautiful, on another night. Tonight, Gale wondered whether his eardrum had been burst by an earlier explosion. He struggled to stand straight. The curtain of night made it difficult to navigate. Gale ground his teeth. He was renowned for a good sense of direction.

"I think we have to go this way more," Gale told Marvel, motioning with his head.

"I thought they were straight ahead," Marvel groaned wearily. "We don't know where we are, do we?"

"I've got a torch on my belt." Gale's tone was heavy with embarrassment as he realised something he should have known all along. It was unlike him to lose him common sense like this. "Let's put him down a minute."

They laid the man on the sand as gently as possible, but he groaned all the same. Gale fumbled in his belt, before finding the torch.

"How are we going to hold it?" Marvel asked.

Gale swore darkly.

"I…" the man's voice was rasping, laboured. "I can…"

Marvel flicked the torch on, and examined the man with a grimace. "Mate, your hands are so burnt I don't know if you… oh, here we go." Marvel secured the torch in the remains of his jacket. "I think I pointed it the right way."

"It's as good as we'll get," Gale conceded, and bent to lift him again. "Three, two, one." Gale frowned at Marvel. Something was wrong with the shaking picture in front of him. It occurred to Gale, eventually, that Marvel was using only one arm to hold the pilot's legs. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Marvel merely nodded.

* * *

Lying parallel to the ground in the arms of men he had forgotten, all Alastair could see was the sky. The stars winked at him. The cool night air soothed his burns. He marvelled at the way it seemed to touch him. The sky hadn't been this clear in England since he was a child. Must be something to do with the coming spring. The flowers would come back, soon. Alastair's thoughts flitted weakly from corner to corner of his fading mind. He could not remember where he was, and he smiled.

* * *

The torch was a success, in the sense that Marvel no longer stumbled in each slight variation of the terrain, (Gale seemed to have steadier feet). This is not to say that Marvel felt safer. He was sure that there was no light quite so bright as that which dangled, tenuously, from the jacket of a wounded man. He was sure that they shone like a lighthouse. He thought of the yellow glow drawing a sloppy target on his back, and he trembled.

His paranoia was not entirely misplaced. Gale and Marvel were not on track for the hospital tents, but rather for a section of the anti-tank ditch that snaked around to the right. They were hobbling and dazed and the light continued to shine, and they were still on the battlefield. With the great guns and artillery collapsed into the jaws of the ditch, the men had emerged. The softer, sharper chatter of the infantry guns had begun.

"Gale, Gale, Gale, Jesus Christ Gale get the torch off!" Marvel hissed in blind panic as he made out the figures of German soldiers. "There's infantry just across the ditch from us."

No sooner had Gale's eyes widened in fear than shots rang out. Gale cried out in pain, and Alastair's head lurched towards the ground.

"Are you, what have they-" Marvel couldn't seem to find words. It occurred to him then that he stood, utterly vulnerable, in the face of machine guns. It occurred to him that he would soon die.

"It's just my calf," Gale gritted out, and they limped desperately onwards. An abandoned anti-tank truck lay only feet away. "Get to the truck, get behind it."

More shots were fired, and Marvel stumbled forward. He could not breathe. He let out a sound halfway between a cry and a laugh.

"Are you hit?" Gale asked as they moved determinedly, clumsily on.

"They hit…" Marvel was breathing too fast for words. "They hit my pack."

One, two, three, four, five. It was so close now. On the sixth excruciating step, the men reached the abandoned truck, and collapsed behind it. Safe from any immediate danger, Marvel realised the pain in his arm for the first time since his truck crashed down the slope. Swallowing with difficulty, he forced the pain from his screaming mind.

"We have to get out of here," Marvel panted, eventually. "We're still vulnerable, the ditch is shallow here, they could get us easy as anything."

"The tents are close," Gale managed, in response. He was right – the hospital tents were mercifully, painfully visible from their new position. They would have seemed close, but for the threat of machine guns. The short passage seemed a mile. "We can make it. We have to."

The question of how hung between them. Marvel couldn't think about failure. He forced the gears of his mind to turn. The pilot's eyes were glassy between them. He seemed so far from human, then. He might have been another pack to carry on another long march across the desert, and Marvel hated himself for it, but he could have left him there. Gale seemed to be thinking similarly. With a shaking hand, he pressed his fingers to his neck.

"He's alive," he confirmed. "In shock, probably. But he's alive."

Gale's words sealed the decision that they would make. They would not leave a living man, there, in the sand. It might have been wise to do so. They both knew that they would not. Marvel noted, dimly, that it was not just Gale's hand that shook. His entire body trembled, his muscles jumped. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but Marvel was sure that something wet seemed to shine on the sand. He couldn't think of blood, then, or of who was bleeding.

"I'll put him over my shoulder," Marvel decided eventually. "Fireman's hold. I'm tall enough."

"And I'll cover you," Gale decided grimly, removing his gun from his pack. "I'll have free hands. If I take them out, it won't matter that we're slow."

"Can you walk?" Marvel asked incredulously.

"I don't have very much choice, do I?" Gale asked.

Marvel shook his head slowly. "I don't suppose you do."

* * *

Every step drove pain through his leg and up his spine, from which it travelled to his brain and burst in odd colours behind his eyes. It seemed impossible to think that he would ever reach the tent. But he would not stop staggering on, not until the bullets had thrown him to the ground and made his heart go still. Dying was not an option, not after all this time.

Marvel had managed to hold the pilot over his shoulder, but sagged under his weight; while Marvel was certainly taller, the man was well built, and Marvel was wiry and lanky like a child. He faltered onwards, jaw set.

Shots rang out, but they were distant. Other voices cried out. Other targets had been chosen. Gale could not pity them. He did not have it in him even to feel relief. He was sure that if he broke his dragging, hopping pattern now, he would collapse to the ground and never get up again.

"Oh Lord! Sister Undersee, there's men outside!"

He'd never heard a sound quite so beautiful as the voice of that nurse.

* * *

"You did all of this," the nurse who'd furtively told him that her first name was Delly asked slowly, "with a badly broken arm?"

Marvel looked down. A hint of bone protruded from his skin.

"I didn't realise, to be honest," he said.

"My Lord," she said fervently, and examined the arm carefully. "All your wrist bones too, absolutely crushed, it looks like…" She took a deep breath. "You've certainly got a high pain threshold."

"Maybe," Marvel agreed, and fainted.

* * *

"I knew you were desperate to come and visit me," Madge said cheekily as she cleaned his wound.

Gale gritted his teeth through the pain of her probing instruments. "I simply couldn't keep away."

* * *

Alastair was sure that an angel attended to him, suspending his arms in fluid, placing dressing on his face and under his back with blessedly cool hands. Her blonde hair shone divinely. She seemed to know him. He could not remember her. Instead, he watched her hazily as she worked.

* * *

Outside the hospital, men flooded over a ditch. The bursts of fire continued through the night, but come the morning, the Allies had won and the end did not seem so very far away after all. Mareth Line, Gabès, Enfidaville, Tunis. Victory.

* * *

 **Yay for survival! Hope that was suitably** **intense - I did try.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: The North Africa Campaign comes to an end, and epilogues start! These will add quite a bit to the story, so don't stress that it doesn't really feel 'done' yet - I have nine of them (one for each major character/pairing). They won't necessarily be full length. Our first is dear old Alastair.**

 **xx - L.**


	39. Chapter 39

**Epilogue – Part I:** ** _Alastair_**

* * *

13th of May, 1943

Alastair still could not open his right eye. It was hard for him to believe that this mess of burnt skin, which was so far gone as to be utterly painless, would ever function again. One of the nurses, of course, had said something optimistic, but in a hospital with such low morale, optimism was essentially their job. Alastair used his one functioning – albeit weepy – eye to look out one of the flap windows of the tent. It was one of those tenuous moments before the daybreak. He was fairly certain he had not slept at all that night. Nightmarish memories and even scarier thoughts of the future weighed heavily upon him. Unable to fall asleep, unable to come to terms with the world around him, Alastair Garraway closed his left eye, clasped his faltering hands, and prayed to God for the first time in years.

When Alastair opened his eye, he found the tent exactly as he had left it. No saint arrived to heal him. No angel descended to escort him to heaven. Never a man with enough patience for the intangible or abstract, Alastair quickly dismissed the temporal comfort of his dialogue with God. A lot had changed since the beginning of the war, but it seemed that his incompatibility with religion had not. It was this fact, as inconsequential as it was, that he allowed to be his consolation. He was – in some ways, at least – the same young fool who'd moved out of his manor to play working-class translator in 1939.

The sun was rising now. Through the makeshift windows of the tent, it reached its long fingers onto Alastair's hands. He watched them with one eye. They had been worn down to calluses by the work, a finger broken upon landing, and scorched by the flames. The welts and blisters seemed to catch the sunlight. He wished he could not see the unnatural angle of his pinkie finger, bent not unlike the wing of the plane that Daniel had found, the initials AG now almost illegible on the side. Before the war, he had been teased for his soft hands. These hands were more worthy of recognition, perhaps; they were tangible evidence of the horrors he'd been through, the badge of suffering that he'd been looking for after so many years of privilege. These hands, however, were not fit to touch his mother's cheek. They would not allow him to bat the way he had before. With a lurch in his stomach, Alastair realised that in such a state, he'd probably never play cricket again. The sun pushed upwards, over the horizon, and Alastair was overwhelmed by the suddenness of it. The desert was flooded with light. It rushed through the hospital like the roar of a bomb.

Alastair was not the only figure illuminated by the sudden and invasive African dawn. His neck mobility, although limited, allowed him to observe Marvel sitting in the chair in which he'd slept. Marvel had been discharged weeks ago, but could not do much with his arm in plaster, and so, frequented the hospital. The two were almost friends now, if such a thing were possible. (A fragment of a late night conversation – "I know it's petty… but is my face totally ruined?" " No. You're still much better looking than me.") Today, Alastair followed Marvel's searching gaze across the hospital. He found a blonde bun, a tired uniform. Awake with the sun, Nurse Rambin was preparing patients for departure. Alastair felt a stir in his chest, but he supposed it was out of loneliness rather than genuine love. He knew that whatever it was he felt for Glimmer these days, the young man in the corner felt it much more deeply. He would not fight for Glimmer, because he did not love her – had not loved her – enough to deserve her.

The prospect of leaving that Glimmer's appearance heralded, yesterday's announcement of a victorious end to the Campaign – none of it felt real in the hospital tent, where the prices of victory festered in their beds. Alastair could muster no sense of pride, or excitement. He wondered if he had become too cynical, or if he was simply too tired. Regardless of reason, the only emotion he registered was a vague relief at the thought of returning to a country that was not so hot all of the time.

The sudden absence of falling bombs, and the quiet that had taken the place of the plane engines, was all vaguely unsettling after years of tired conversation constantly punctuated by the various groans and roars of artillery. He wondered whether peacetime would ever cease being so unnerving. The more cynical portion of his mind chose this moment to remind him that an end to the North Africa Campaign did not signal peacetime. On Russian fronts, in Italy, and in the Pacific, battles raged on. He, Alastair, would return to translating, and continue his life as a tiny cog turning the war machine, albeit in a safer location. Somewhere else, there were other soldiers in planes. Some would be shot down. Some would be the shooters. It seemed as natural to him now as the circle of life he'd observed as a child: the bird eating the worm, the cat eating the bird, and so forth. He listened to the silence. He was sure that at this moment, somewhere beyond the desert, bombs were falling.

He finally decided, however, that none of this mattered in the immediate sense. Right now, there was quiet; the monstrous tanks had gone to sleep, the planes fallen from the sky. There were not enough men left to carry on the fight, but there was him. Alastair's body had been mutilated by fire and metal, and his brain had been dried out by the desert sun, but he remained, and therefore, he was a lucky one. He would be helped onto a ship, just as another soldier was now, leaning heavily against Glimmer. Alastair was lucky, and Alastair would go home. He looked to the man beside him and caught Marvel's eye, gave him a tenuous nod. He half-expected the bombs to begin falling again. They did not, and so, Alastair stood up, and allowed a woman who reminded him of his mother to send him off on the beginning of his long journey home.

* * *

 **Well, I have absolutely no excuse for disappearing on you for weeks... feel free to hate me. On the upside (maybe?) I thought this was a pretty good chapter, but that might just be me. I do have a soft spot for poor old Alastair, I think. (Any traces of an English cricket captain, anyone? I'm the worst Aussie in the world...) Let me know what you think!**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Marvel and Glimmer prepare to leave.**

 **xx - L.**


	40. Chapter 40

**Epilogue – Part II:** ** _Marvel and Glimmer_**

* * *

13th of May, 1943

The rising sun stung his eyes. God, Marvel groaned wordlessly, could he be in a sadder state? This was supposed to be a day of hope, a celebration of a grand victory and the beginning of a new chapter, but he struggled to see the upcoming invasion of Salerno as anything new or exciting. It made no difference to him whether war was fought in a desert or on a peninsula, unless one considered that at least in Salerno he wouldn't see any more men die the seemingly humorous death of a stomach full of sand. He scratched at his plaster. The nurses were of the consensus that a broken arm would not take long to mend, as badly broken as it had been. Already out of the hospital, he'd been granted a mere month of leave. One of the less sensitive generals had cheerily told him that if he were lucky, by the time he was ready to go they'd be storming Rome. He hoped it would take an age for his bone to set. He did not want to fight in Salerno. He was tired of fighting. He was tired.

"I have to help them take some of the wheelchair-bound boys out," Glimmer told him as she passed him; he'd taken to spending time in the hospital, helping the nurses, because there wasn't much for him to do amongst the men. She paused, and there was a trace of her old flirtatiousness in her eyes as she said, "If you wait here, we can board together once they're all on the ship."

"I'll wait," he told her in a voice thick with sand.

He was not entirely sure what Glimmer wanted from him, and struggled to remember what he wanted from her. She, like so many others, was different these days. The war had forced her to open her eyes and grow up in a way that the hospital work in London had not. He wasn't sure whether he liked her better this way. He wondered, as he listened to a new sadness in her voice, how much he had changed. It was difficult to remember life before the sand, the bombs, the war. It was difficult, in a world where bombs had been replaced by a terrifying silence, to measure change as good or bad. Had Glimmer been selfish and naïve before the war? Or had she simply and innocently held dear all the joy and wonder of childhood? He could not remember if he had loved her for her childishness or loved her in spite of it, but he supposed that it did not matter. He was sure that he loved her now, in a world where her glow was put to shame by the brightness of the desert, where men called Rats bled on her clothes, and bombs made fireworks in the night.

Of course, the bombs had stopped falling now. It was difficult for Marvel to believe, and difficult for him to appreciate. This was not the finale, but a brief intermission, one designed to allow both sides to prepare to throw themselves into their graves with new vigour. In Salerno, the bombs would fall again. He would become reacquainted with the chatter of bullet and the tired bickering of the men. He and his companions would once more trade their humanity for a ration pack and a gun; they would return to being soldiers, those dirty, wiry creatures that think first of themselves.

"You look miserable," Glimmer observed upon her return.

Marvel, head snapping up with the sound of her voice, had not realised that he'd slipped into a reverie as the hospital had slowly emptied.

"I am," he responded.

"I don't blame you," she said softly, before bravely returning to a tone more typical of a nurse. "Come along, Private Quaid. There's a boat back to England waiting for you. I'm sure it'll be nice to have a few weeks of leave."

"It will," Marvel conceded.

She took his good arm, and smiled up at him. "Goodness Marvel, you're taller than I remembered. Handsomer, too. Handsomer than the officer I danced with in Egypt, I think, although you mustn't tell him I said that."

Marvel frowned. He certainly did not feel handsome, beat up and worn down. On top of this, he seemed to have suddenly lost his ability to respond to compliments. All he managed to say was, "You went to the officer's ball?"

She nodded, seemingly unconcerned. "All the nurses did. They're short on women around here, you see. It was quite nice, I must say. Finally put the few skills of my upbringing to use."

Marvel's brain seemed stuck somewhere beyond the hospital tent. "Skills?"

She laughed lightly, unoffended. "I'm an excellent ballroom dancer, Marvel," she said, and paused. "Here, let me show you."

He clasped one of her small, delicate hands in his, and she placed the other on his shoulder.

"I don't suppose that arm's going to be able to hold my waist?" she asked, inclining her head towards his cast.

"You tell me." His lips quirked into his first smile in what might have been months, as he added cheekily, "You're the nurse."

She beamed in return. "I think I'll have to lead," she told him, and paused. "What shall we dance to?"

"Perhaps…" Marvel knew nothing about music or dance. "A nice waltz? Something classical, anyhow." He hoped he sounded as though he knew what he was talking about.

"That can be arranged." Glimmer stood straighter. "The band has begun playing – a beautiful band, lots of cellos and violins and such – and the couples enter the dance floor. They're all ready now, here we go, one two three, one two three, one two three…"

They were an odd pair, and terrible dancers to top it off. Marvel was indeed too tall for her, and the arm strapped to his chest limited their movements to the most basic. The hospital, with its sloping cloth roof caked with dust that rained on them every time Marvel's head made contact with it, was far from the ideal ballroom. Despite it all, Marvel felt the dread and resignation that had haunted him for so long now melt away. He remembered in that moment that before the war, it was Glimmer's spontaneity that he had loved her for. Now, he was sure that he loved her more than ever.

Time seemed to slow as their dance came to an end. Glimmer was watching him carefully, the shadow of a smile on her face. Marvel looked down at her, and felt his eyes crinkle with a smile. He moved his good arm from her hand to her waist. She had dust in her hair. She was rising onto her toes when the horn of the ship went off, and they came back to themselves. Without a word exchanged, they ran to the ship, smiles lighting their faces and laughter lost in the hot desert wind, minds briefly and blissfully empty of any thoughts of the future.

* * *

 **Aren't they cute? I'll admit to having far too much fun with this one. Let me know what you thought.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Years of callousness catches up with Gale. Madge does what she can.**

 **xx - L.**


	41. Chapter 41

**Epilogue – Part III:** ** _Madge and Gale_**

* * *

13th of May, 1943

The last few of the homeward bound were trudging onto the ship. They would depart soon; they would soon roll away from their conquered land over inexhaustible leagues of ocean, until they returned to a more familiar stretch of sea, where gulls swooped and the beaches were pebbled. The ship contained the wounded and the exhausted, those that warranted some leave before attacking Italy. Gale sighed heavily, the noise whipped away by the breeze. The bandage on his calf was not an escape. He did not want to return home.

Unlike Marvel, who'd told him in a flat voice that he didn't know if he'd be able to bear the sight of the bit of land where his house had once been, it wasn't the thought of a splintered London that left his stomach feeling unsettled. Gale had never really liked the city that had swallowed his family as expendable, forgettable members of a bleak workforce. London had been his jail for a long time. Gale was old enough to remember the days in the countryside, before his father died and they couldn't look after the farm anymore. It had been a meagre farm, but the Hawthornes hadn't needed to answer to anyone, and a young Gale had greedily sucked in clean air and run through the forest on light feet he'd somehow misplaced, in the city. Today, Gale did not seek to see an industrialised skyline or to hear the cars. If it had all been wiped away, he was apathetic. Perhaps if it were rebuilt, there might be some room for the Hawthornes then.

The thought of the people was frightening to him, although he wouldn't admit it. He thought, grimly, of Thom, whose brain had collapsed in on itself as Gale had allowed the burning tank to do the same. He was ashamed to have hurt Thom in such a way, to have hurt the man who'd stolen apples with him in his boyhood, and who'd responded to every one of his resentful rants with a lounging shrug and a cheeky smile that diffused his anger gently, warmly. Gale was ashamed to think that after everything he'd seen, he looked forward to Italy. Life was simpler at war. The task at hand was clear, and for the first time in his life since catching rabbits in snares, he was good at it. He was a born soldier, and Thom seemed incongruous now.

Thought of Katniss was painful. He'd stopped writing to her some time around the New Year, because he had simply run out of things to say. War consumed his mind, and he did not wish to speak of war to Katniss. He knew she thought contemptuously of it all. Katniss was far from fragile, but she was righteous and fiercely loyal too; Katniss would not have allowed a tank of men to burn while her friend turned grey. She had stopped writing before he did. He did not know why, and he did not want to. He and Katniss were alike, too much so, and he did not want to consider what she had seen, what made made the pen feel so heavy in her hand.

"Fancy seeing you here."

Madge Undersee walked over in her slow, easy gait, and leaned over the railing next to him. Gale did not know what to say to her, but she did not seem to mind, lips pursed together and eyes forward. Together, they watched Africa. In front of them, it spread onwards forever, filling the horizon. The thin strip of ocean in which the ship floated seemed laughably small.

"I didn't know you nurses were coming home too," he said eventually.

"We need leave, just like the rest of you," Madge responded mildly, drumming her fingers against the warm metal of the rails. Her hands were so delicate.

"Are you looking forward to it?" he asked.

"I am," Madge said delicately, and looked at him shrewdly. "Are you?"

Gale snorted. She knew the answer.

"It will be nice to see your family, surely," Madge persisted.

"It'll be hard," Gale admitted, shrugging and feeling the heaviness of his shoulders. The wind beat at his face. "I'll see them for a couple of weeks, then I'll be off again. One more painful goodbye to get through."

"You need to focus on the positives, Private Hawthorne," Madge quipped with a small smile. "You'll never get through it all, otherwise."

Despite it all, Gale smiled to himself and looked down at his hands. He was reminded, bizarrely, of watching the children lucky enough to go to kindergarten, putting on a play. His memories were dim – he couldn't have been more than five at the time, but he remembered Madge Undersee, dressed as the sun. Blonde and beaming, Madge had been perfect then, and she was perfect now. She radiated.

"I quite like you, Gale," Madge told him, gently. "I think you should know that."

Gale muttered to his hands. "No you don't."

"I had no idea you were more in tune with my emotions that I was," Madge countered smoothly, her sarcasm light in a way that put his gravelly voice to shame.

"You don't understand." Gale was frustrated now; his mind was a maze of dead ends, and his emotions tangled messily. He could only manage to comprehend one sinking thought. He voiced it now. "I don't deserve you."

"Maybe you don't."

He was surprised to hear these words, but she voiced them lightly, and shrugged with ease. Below them, the ropes were untied from the docks. Gradually, then faster, the land began to shrink as the ocean stretched out before them.

"It doesn't bother me, you know," she told him lightly. "No one ever gets exactly what they deserve."

Gale turned his back on Africa now, and looked at his new dawn. She smiled at him, and he wondered whether maybe, given time, she might be the one to thaw him.

* * *

 **Well, they're not as cute as Marvel and Glimmer, but they're not half bad, and I do really like the thought of little baby Madge dressed as the sun.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: a wedding in London – guess who?**

 **xx - L.**


	42. Chapter 42

**Epilogue – Part IV:** ** _Thom and Lillian_**

* * *

13th of May, 1943

The bluestone church was small and rain pattered outside, but Lillian beamed as she was driven by her father to the place she had first taken Thom to mass five years ago. They'd decided to do things somewhat differently; while the small groups of family and friends waited in the pews, both bride and groom would arrive late. They would see each other for the first time that day outside of the church's wooden doors. They would be alone, together. Thom and Lillian had always been a bit like that. Then, they would walk the aisle together. There were no bridesmaids or groomsmen, partially due to the distinct lack of men Thom's age here in London, and partially because the budget really was rather tight. Lillian fingered the lace of her dress as she squinted through the window. The landscape was warped by the gushing rain, but she could make out another car – Thom's car – parked by the church.

"Are you ready, dear?"

Her father parked the car and turned to look at her. For the first time, she saw that he was old, the greys in his hair, the creases by his eyes and mouth. In a wave of fondness, she hugged him tightly, clumsily. He kissed her on the cheek.

"Let's not keep the poor man waiting," he told her with a smile.

Under the umbrella held by her father, Lillian picked her way towards the church, focusing intently on her feet. When she arrived at the door of the church and looked up, she was startled to see Thom before her.

"Good morning," he said mildly.

She laughed breathily in sheer exhilaration, and composed herself with a deep breath. "You know," she replied eventually, "I think that's the first thing you ever said to me. Down by the Thames…" she trailed off, smiling fondly with the memory.

"I won't forget what you said back," he said with a grin, and feigned checking his watch. "Five past twelve, actually. Good afternoon."

Lillian laughed. "I'm sorry."

"You, Lillian Taylor, don't have a thing in the world to be sorry for," Thom told her.

Lillian looked at him then, and fell in love with him for the second time. She couldn't deny the change in character; Thom didn't go hunting anymore, and moments still came when he struggled for breath and left his body. She loved this man just as much as the first. He was not broken, she realised then, simply carrying a rather heavy weight. She would carry it with him, and together, it would be bearable. She would for carry this weight for the man with the dark hair and darker eyes, for the crow's feet that appeared by his eyes when he smiled, for the width of his shoulders but the wiriness of his build. She loved every bit of him, weight and all.

"We'd best go in before your poor old father's soaked through," Thom said eventually, inclining his head towards Sergeant Taylor.

And so, as the news of a victorious end to the combat in Africa and even the rain began to seem distant, Lillian took Thom's hand, and the doors opened and they walked inside, together.

* * *

 **So I have literally no excuse for disappearing other than I forgot the story existed. That's terribly poor form by me - sorry guys! I'll try not to do that again, especially as we're so close to the end.**

 **Should we try to get to 100 reviews with this one, or is that too much to ask? Give it a crack.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Hazelle and Rory talk about the slag heap.**

 **xx - L.**


	43. Chapter 43

**Epilogue – Part V:** ** _Hazelle and Rory_**

* * *

13th of May, 1943

Hazelle did not lift her eyes from her sewing as her son ducked under the doorway. "It never worked for your brother, you know," she told him, softly.

Rory froze. He hadn't expected anyone to be awake at this hour. He turned to face his mother slowly. "What are you talking about?" His voice was thin with lacking bravado.

"I know where you go, Rory Hawthorne," Hazelle told him, more sharply this time, as she looked up from her sewing and pierced him with steely eyes. Suddenly, her voice was mild again. "That slag heap has been the place to go for longer than I care to admit."

Rory did not ask his mother what she meant by this. Instead, he folded his arms stubbornly. "Well?" he challenged her.

"Well," Hazelle repeated wearily, "I don't imagine it will make you feel much better."

"I don't imagine you know what you're talking about," Rory retorted childishly.

At this, Hazelle snorted. "You haven't come home in a particularly good mood."

"That's not because of that, it's because of you!" Rory's voice rose at the end, and he realised with a jolt that he was shouting at his mother. He'd never shouted at her before. Never like that.

Hazelle sighed, and she looked so old as she did. She was not old; she was not even forty. She'd had Gale at fifteen. It was with a dim revulsion that Rory realised the significance of his mother's familiarity with the slag heap.

"Rory," she said, and he could hear her voice straining with withheld emotions, "I don't want to argue with you. But I can't watch you dishonour her memory any longer."

Suddenly, Rory's throat was choked with something he could not say, and he averted his gaze. Struck dumb, his hands shook.

"I know that you're trying to forget," Hazelle went on, "and I understand it. I do. But you have to remember that it would make her sick, Rory. It would."

She couldn't have chosen words that would have hurt more. Rory's face contorted, first into a snarl of rage, then a grimace, and then, slowly, he closed his eyes and bit his lip. Tonight, on his third outing to the slag heap, Rory had paid a girl he didn't know a handful of coins and taken her in the dirtiest, dingiest part of London. Tonight, Rory cried like a child.

"Don't you cry, Rory Hawthorne," Hazelle admonished him without malice, and stood to approach him.

When she reached him, he looked down at her with swimming eyes. Already, threads of grey streaked her black hair. He was taller than her now; seventeen years old, unshaven, the victim of a furious growth spurt and no longer a virgin, Rory held his mother and cried into her hair.

"My son," she murmured into his chest, "my beautiful son. It will stop hurting, I promise, but you have to stop first." She pulled away from Rory so as to look him in the eye. "If you hurt others, you hurt yourself. No number of trips to the slag heap will take the anger away, darling."

Rory nodded slowly. He was sure that he looked absurd, tears in his stubble. He realised then how detestable he'd become.

"I'm sorry," he managed.

"I know," Hazelle told him. "Now get to bed. You've heard the good news! Gale will be coming home soon, and I have a thousand things around the house I need you to fix. Wouldn't want him to think we'd let the place fall apart without him - it would do his confidence too much good."

Rory smiled weakly, and left the room.

* * *

 **Another short one. I'm sorry to have neglected Rory for a bit and thrown out all his issues here, but I had to fit in that interaction between mother and son - I was always quite interested by the character of Hazelle (have I done an ok job on her?)**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Peeta puts his inheritance to good use, and brings Katniss along with him.**

 **xx - L.**


	44. Chapter 44

**Epilogue – Part VI:** ** _Katniss and Peeta_**

* * *

13th of May, 1943

Twickenham had been hit by bombs in the south, but much of the town remained. The people were as resilient as the buildings, and kind too; they'd helped Katniss and Peeta haul their possessions off the bus and into the store. According to Peeta, the property had been cheap, on account of its location on the border of the standing buildings and the expanse of rubble. Katniss could not believe that this double-storey building could have been cheap, but with his parents, an adult brother and a rich aunt up in Manchester all dead, and two living brothers sending portions of their military wages to him, Peeta had come into some money.

Mayor Undersee had initially been cautious about the idea, but Peeta had pointed out that at twenty and nineteen years old, it was not unreasonable of them to sustain themselves. Of course, the mayor's primary misgivings were likely related to the notion of a man and woman living together, alone but unmarried, to which both Peeta and Katniss had responded with derision. They shared kisses on occasion, but love moved slowly and gently between them. Katniss struggled to believe that she would ever tire of simply being with Peeta, sharing his glow. She longed for no more, and Peeta was good enough to wait.

"So this will be the counter," Peeta murmured. He ran his fingers over the wood. His face shone with an excitement Katniss had not seen in over two years now. "And we'll set up a display case over here. The ovens will be through here…" He pushed the door open, and she followed him through. "It won't fit quite as many as we had back home, but that's alright."

Together, they traipsed up the stairs, marvelling at what was now theirs.

"Plenty of bedrooms, so we don't have to share, or anything terrifyingly modern like that," Peeta quipped cheekily, gifting her a dimpled smile. "And if Billy and Matthew make it back, and decide they still like bread, we can fit them in too."

"You've picked marvellously," Katniss told him, looking around her. "You really have. We won't want for anything."

"It will be good, won't it?" Peeta asked. It was difficult to be optimistic, after so many years of fearing the worst.

"It will," Katniss said decisively. "I can even see the manor from my window," she added with satisfaction, gesturing to the building in which she would work, as a maid, until Peeta had the bakery up and running. She thought back to the Fuhrman house, and 1940. It seemed an age ago.

"It will be nice to do some things for ourselves, won't it?" Peeta mused. "Children of the war. It's a terrible state to be in. Now, we decide…" Peeta trailed off, as he sat down on the bed of the room they were inspecting.

Katniss studied him carefully. She could see the doubt, the fear that lingered behind his eyes. She could not blame him. Although the fighting in Africa had finally ceased, the war dragged on. Billy fought in France, Matthew in Burma. More bad news could arrive. Katniss was aware that one day, their family might really dwindle down to just the two of them. It would be her responsibility, entirely, to ensure that Peeta did not fade away.

"Somewhere," Peeta managed eventually, "bombs are falling."

Katniss sat down next to him. "It's awful to think about, isn't it?"

"Even when things go right," Peeta went on, "there's more going wrong."

"It can't go forever, Peeta," Katniss assured him. "One day, it'll be more than just you and me."

"I know," Peeta conceded, and turned to her with a gentle smile. "You know, Katniss, it could be you and me forever, and I'd be happy."

* * *

 **Awwwwww Peeta. Apologies about the delay - I finally promised to stop disappearing, then my laptop decided to break down. How good is that? Anyway, it's here now, and I hope you enjoyed.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Haymitch receives a visitor who looks a lot like a ghost.**

 **xx - L.**


	45. Chapter 45

**Epilogue – Part VII:** ** _Haymitch and Mary_**

* * *

13th of May, 1943

Upon hearing the wavering knock, Haymitch trudged to the front door and opened it. He took one look at the woman on his doorstep, and dropped the bottle. Liquor ran onto the floor. In spite of the memories flooding to the front of his mind, Haymitch composed himself.

"I'm trying to decide what's more likely," he drawled slowly. "I'm either so pissed I'm seeing ghosts, or you're that bloody twin."

"Watch your language," Mary Undersee told him sharply, and walked past his slumped frame and straight into his house.

"What do you think you're doing?" Haymitch wailed, following her inside.

"I'd like to talk to you," Mary told him, sitting down at his kitchen table. "And I'd like a drink."

Haymitch sneered. "Well, luckily for you, there's plenty of drink to go around."

"Excellent," she said crisply, eyes following his closely as he approached the cupboard and returned with a bottle and two glasses.

Haymitch frowned at her as he took the chair opposite, clutching the bottle instinctively. "This isn't bad for your head, is it?" He hoped he'd remembered that right. There was something that kept the mayor's wife in bed.

"On the contrary," she replied smoothly. "I try to tell my husband that if he'd just let me have a drink, I'd be healed."

At this, Haymitch snorted, and poured her a glass. "I thought it'd heal me too."

As they drank, Haymitch watched Mary critically, carefully. His eyes searched for a trait, a sign that this woman was not Maysilee. He never could pick them apart, except by voice, by demeanour. In the physical sense, they were, as far as Haymitch could tell, completely identical. The only sign that told him that this was Mary, not Maysilee, who sat before him, was that this woman was clearly aged, and Maysilee hadn't made it past twenty.

"For someone who wanted to talk," Haymitch said eventually, breaking the silence, "you're not very talkative."

Mary grimaced, glass to her lip. Haymitch could tell that it was not the burn of the alcohol that contorted her face.

"I think about you a lot, Haymitch," she said eventually.

Haymitch could only nod.

"I'm not sure if you remember this," she went on, looking now into the bottom of her glass so as to avoid his gaze, "but you came to her funeral terribly drunk. And," she continued lightly, "you kissed me."

Haymitch shook his head vehemently. "I don't remember that," he said hurriedly, and paused. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Mary waved a dismissive hand, and finished the last portion of her drink. "If you forget the alcohol stench, it wasn't a terrible kiss." She paused, coughed. "I thought you were so gorgeous, Haymitch, and you broke my heart because you kissed me and said her name."

The drink tasted suddenly sour in Haymitch's mouth. He remembered Mary's coldness, when he came over with Maysilee. He remembered her telling her sister that he wasn't good for anything. He'd never imagined why. Stuttering, Haymitch made to apologise again, then recalled Mary's words. "I…" he muttered, unsure of what he intended to say, "I can't believe I don't remember any of that."

"Of course you don't," Mary said with a snort. "You were trying to drink yourself to death. Got started before the funeral, tried to finish yourself off that night. I came over that night to yell at you for killing her, for kissing me, but I found you unconscious. I cleared your airway, and you woke up the next morning."

It seemed impossible that woman sitting across from him, the woman who'd loved him and hated him, had saved his life.

"I can't…" Haymitch swallowed painfully. "But you hate me, don't you? Didn't you?"

"I hated you then, but only because I wanted you," Mary muttered darkly. "Now, I don't hate you at all."

"Not even for Maysilee?" Haymitch asked. He was astounded by the desperation in his voice. He did not understand why he wished to elicit Mary's hatred. He did not recognise that he was crushed every moment of every day by the weight of the guilt. He did not recognise that he was looking for the punishment he had never received.

"You didn't kill her," Mary said confidently, pouring another glass for each of them.

"You don't know that," Haymitch said with a grimace. "No one knows."

Mary maintained her tone of utter sincerity. "I simply don't believe it."

Haymitch sighed heavily, and watched the ripples in the drink his breath had caused. It might have been minutes before he spoke again. "I wish I could see it like that."

"You don't deserve to torture yourself, Haymitch," Mary told him.

She placed her hand between them, on the table. He placed his hand on top of hers, and did not feel the pang of betrayal he'd expected to register. They did not say anything else, not even when night fell, and Mary walked home.

* * *

 **Bit sad. Kind of nice. I've always loved Haymitch and Maysilee, especially poor Haymitch, so I wanted to wrap things up for him okay.**

 **Teaser for next chapter: Johanna, Annie and Noah go in search of a new beginning.**

 **xx - L.**


	46. Chapter 46

**Epilogue – Part VIII:** ** _Johanna, Annie and Noah_**

* * *

13th of May, 1943

The house was fully packed now, all their possessions in boxes, the dirt swept away and the linen stripped from the beds. Johanna's mother had helped them, stoically, silently. If Johanna had imagined that any reconciliation between them might take place during her mother's stay, she'd been mistaken, but Eloise Mason had at least been productive. Despite the front of grim determination, Johanna knew that her mother would be glad to return to quiet widowhood in Bath.

Of course, the efforts of mother and daughter hadn't been able to erase all traces of their time in 32 Radnor Road. The latch Johanna had installed remained on the cutlery drawer, scorch marks blighted the kitchen bench despite Eloise's best efforts, and they'd decided to leave Noah's cradle behind; they would buy a new one in Australia. Someone else would move into the house that had once belonged to the woman rumoured to be mad.

"I'm ready," Annie told her, emerging from the marital bedroom in which she'd slept alone for the greater part of her marriage. Her coat was heavy around her, despite the warmth of the spring air. Annie was shrunken these days and had a tendency to feel the cold, but she was getting better.

Johanna had been astounded to watch a therapy that was so new, so terrifying, and considered so cruel, work wonders for Annie. It seemed to wrench her from the darker threads of her mind, and return her to the real world. She slept through the night now, and did not talk of murder, of suicide, in a way that made Johanna feel sick and sent sparks of anguish through her mind. She had more energy too, and attended to Noah diligently, albeit somewhat awkwardly. She'd been the one to suggest the move. Dr Harwood had informed them he had a colleague in Melbourne with whom he'd studied ECT, so that they were equipped should the need arise. Apparently, however, Dr Harwood was quietly confident she would not need the therapy again. Confronted with such a drastic change in Annie's character, Johanna, the eternal pessimist, could almost believe him.

They walked down to the station, where awkward goodbyes were exchanged as Eloise and the makeshift family of three found themselves going to different platforms, bound for Bath and Liverpool respectively. It was a relief for Johanna to board the train, and have the woman who was so strange to her out of her sight.

"We've got a long journey ahead of us," Johanna said absently, once seated in the carriage.

Annie nodded thoughtfully, before gifting her a rare smile. "You know, it's quite exciting, really."

"It is," Johanna agreed, leaning back in her chair.

Outside the window, London flew by. She could not hold this city with any particular fondness; she did not know it well enough. After a childhood in Bath blighted by the pilot and her mother's determined ignorance, Liverpool had been her safe-haven. She'd become the city's best electrician. The ATS, her saviour, had sent her to London on occasion, back and forth. Most London trips had passed harmlessly enough; she'd explored the city for the first time, picked up a brief roommate. Then, she'd come to London, and found herself in Twickenham with an ambulance. She'd delivered a baby in a living room. She'd moved in. She'd been to hell and back, all in one tiny, Twickenham house, just outside of this rumbling, crumbling city. But she did not feel as though she knew it.

"I've heard they have the most magnificent ocean in Australia," Annie murmured, after a while. "Perhaps we should live by the seaside."

Johanna shrugged. She had not considered it. Australia merely held for her the notion of a vague new beginning. She did not know what she would find. She did not know, in all honesty, what she was looking for.

"There must be some seaside hospital where I could work. And you could drive an ambulance, work at the same hospital, if you weren't sick to death of me." Annie smiled so easily Johanna wanted to cry with relief. She hadn't seen this Annie for so long.

"I'd quite like that, I think," Johanna responded calmly, and turned her gaze from the window. Perhaps she would allow Annie to do the searching. Perhaps she would simply roll with the ocean, with the tenderness of Annie's smile. She would be happy, like that.

* * *

 **Well, I certainly owe you all quite the apology - my computer perished, I (almost) lost everything and had to wait far too long to get it back. Many sorries!**

 **No, I couldn't resist sending more characters off to Australia. Apparently, I'm patriotic at heart. I do love the idea of Johanna and Annie finding their new beginning together. And we're so near the end now! Teaser for next chapter: our final chapter. Cato and Clove go out for a drink and a dance.**

 **xx - L.**


	47. Chapter 47

**Epilogue – Part IX:** ** _Cato and Clove_**

* * *

13th of May, 1943

Cato hadn't told her what the drinks were in honour of, if anything. He'd surprised her, managing to get his leave a day early, and swinging past her house in his father's car, dressed for a night out. At the time, she'd been spring cleaning and was covered in dust, but he'd maintained that he would wait, and that she should get changed immediately. Driving through London in the passenger seat, in a nice dress with abominable hair, Clove smiled like an idiot, and far away, tanks rolled deeper into the Soviet Union.

"Do you remember when they wouldn't let you in here?" Cato mused as they passed through the doors of their favourite club. "Thought you still looked like a child."

Clove groaned. "I couldn't forget. That was absolutely mortifying."

"I wouldn't let them knock you back tonight," Cato told her assuredly. "It's too important."

"Important?" Clove asked.

Cato nodded vaguely, a small smile on his lips. Once they were seated, he elaborated. "It's closing night of Sergeant Snow White, down in Tatura," he informed her, a small smile quirking at his lips. He took a pensive sip of his beer. "And it's all over in Africa," he went on. "Thank God."

Somewhere in Germany, a young boy thanked God as bombs hammered against the earth but the train tunnel remained intact and his heart continued to pump blood through his veins. Somewhere in the Soviet Union, his older brother asked what had happened to God as the blood leaked from a hole he could not stem with his shaking hands.

Clove agreed vehemently. "I'm so glad. This war's gone on an awfully long time, hasn't it?" she mused. "I suppose it'll carry on long after this. Russia. France. The Pacific." She groaned with the thought of it, and downed the remainder of her drink. "Sorry, I shouldn't be so miserable," she told him briskly, sitting up straighter. "On a lighter note, Marvel will be home soon!"

"That will be wonderful," Cato agreed. "Poor bloke. I got letters from him, never more than three lines long. Always tried to be upbeat, but he must have been exhausted, Clove. Apparently, it was shocking out there."

It had been shocking. As Africa faded away and the waves surrounded him, Marvel counted the stars because he could not bear to sleep.

"At least he was with his Rambin girl," Clove responded with a smirk. This was easier to think about.

"Oh, I forgot about that!" Cato laughed lightly. "Wouldn't they be a couple?" He snorted into his drink. "The princess and the pauper."

"He's much too nice for her, anyhow," Clove reasoned.

"And she's much too attractive for him," Cato added.

Clove slapped him lightly on the arm, and he smiled, bowing his head with good grace. The club was filling now, mainly with on-leave servicemen like Cato. Occasionally, Cato would see someone he knew, introduce them, and chatter briefly about trivial matters. Clove didn't recognise any of the women who flitted amongst the men. When the couple finally rose to their feet to dance, Clove found herself a great deal drunker than she'd imagined. She clutched Cato's arm tightly, and let the music swirl around her.

In China, Changjiao was quiet. 30,000 lay dead. A woman clutched the windowsill of her fractured home because she could not stand without it. She ached. The Japanese officers would come to her again.

"Don't let me make a fool of myself," Clove told him sternly.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Cato responded breezily, with a wink.

And so, they danced, for what seemed an age. Enemy aliens danced onstage, in Tatura. They couldn't dance for the life of them. Clove wasn't typically a dancer, but supposed that a change of character was in order with a few drinks under her belt. She was glad to have Cato to steady her. Dizzy from spinning and laughter, she eventually came to a stop, burying her smile in Cato's collarbone.

"You know," she mumbled, looking up at him. "We should get married."

His eyes widened in shock. "Is this because of New Year's?" he asked her.

She could have laughed until she collapsed. She'd proposed. She'd almost given Cato a heart attack. "No!" Clove assured him. "I just think… it's a good idea."

"Hmmm," Cato mused, a slight smile coming onto his face as he rocked her lightly with the music. "I can think of worse ideas." He looked down at her, smile broadening into a boyish grin. "We'll just have to tell the story of our engagement some other way, I'm afraid. Your mother would have an anuerysm, otherwise."

Giddy with drink and happiness, Clove beamed. "It doesn't bother me." She thought for a moment, and laughed to herself.

"What is it?" Cato asked.

"We're going to hear a lot of 'I told you so's."

In Tatura, homesick aliens played out _Act II: Europe Calling_ , and they laughed and laughed and laughed and the music was magnificent but God, they were a long way away from it all. In the oceans, U-boats prowled and boats sank in slow motion to their open graves on the ocean floor. Men shot one another from the sky, and children cowered from the fireworks. In Warsaw, Germans crushed a Jewish uprising, and reaped the humans for death in Treblinka. The British razed Germany to the ground. German tanks were too deep in the Soviet Union, where their campaign would freeze and their blood would stain the snow. An end would come to the bombs, to the war. For now, it roared on. Cato and Clove were the smallest people in the world, in that moment, dwarfed by it all. Hands entwined and foreheads touching, they could have been worlds away.

 _Fin._

* * *

 **And so it ends! Thank you for bearing with me all this time, as I dragged it out. I've really enjoyed writing and publishing this, and I've loved hearing from you all. Do let me know how you found it all :)**

 **xx - L.**


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